The case of the vanished landlady
by mrs.forsyte
Summary: Holmes'dealings with a master abductor prove to be a trying experience for Mrs. Hudson...
1. First Consultation

The case of the vanished landlady

Chapter one: First consultation

Disclaimer: I don't own!

Hi there, this is my new Holmes fanfic, hope you'll enjoy it! I will endeavour to keep it as doylesian as possible, having thoroughly studied the canon and general Sherlockiana. If however I should make any blunders, you are welcome to point these out to me (also as regards language), since nobody is perfect. The case is set chronologically before Watsons marriage with Mary Morstan, consequently during the days of his and Holmes' co-habitation. It is connected with no allusion from the canon, the plot and persons other than Holmes, Watson, Mrs. Hudson and Inspector Lestrade are entirely my own invention.

Looking over my published notes dating from the time I shared rooms in Baker Street with my extraordinarily gifted friend Sherlock Homes, it strikes me as rather strange that they should include none of those cases in which our formidable landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was involved. It is with some repentance and a strong sense of duty towards said lady that I set out to choose one from such cases as I have in store, one that I distinctly feel should receive the approval of even my sternest critic, since it offers plenty of opportunities to display his singular talents, as well as being non-sensational without bordering on triviality.

The set-off to the case was brought into our cosy drawing-room from the wind-swept streets of London on the 22 of march 1891. As usual at this hour of the day, Mr. Holmes was busy perusing the agony columns of several papers and London gazettes, tossing those he had finished onto a quickly accumulating heap by the side of his armchair. I myself was lounging in the easy-chair on the opposite side of the roaring fire, when Mrs. Hudson announced a spontaneous visitor to our abode.

"I say, Holmes," I exclaimed, getting up and picking the card from the silver tray, "it is quite astounding that anyone should venture into the streets, abandoning the comforts of his home, on a bleak day such as this. One would assume that the matter is urgent – in fact, a case that promises to be worth your while."

"So it would seem", my friend returned in a rather peevish tone, "to any person that has been endowed with a like amount of naivété as you, Watson. It may be that the matter at hand is of some importance – to the advice-seeker, that is. To me, however, it may prove to be the merest humdrum business depending on which are money, power, honour or equally undesirable notions so highly esteemed by the human kind. A case may well be important, Watson…without containing the faintest trace of interest to me, who seeks the thrill of the riddle rather than the thanks of a wealthy desperate."

I sighed softly at my companions notorious irritability, raising the card to the light of the gas-lamp. _Dr. Angus Woodnell, 72 Bedford Square, _it read, and an instant later the very man was shown into our room. I took his offered hand, which was quite broad and firm, and grasped the opportunity to observe him closely while he made the acquaintance of Sherlock Holmes.

He was an uncommonly handsome man, well over six feet, his built strong, but slender, with good features and dark hair and eyes. He exuded utterly sympathetic, enticing youthfulness, while it was quite apparent that he deemed himself vastly attractive.

"Mr. Holmes", he commenced with a rich, deep voice, as soon as we were seated, "I'm calling on you not only on my own behalf, but also on that of a friend, or rather on his advice to seek your aid rather than that of the officials, who hold a very low position in his esteem."

"May I learn the name of that well- judged gentleman?" Sherlock Holmes interrupted.

"It is none else than Lord Alistair Montgrave of Berkeley Square, renowned collector and connoisseur of arts, and a close friend of mine since university days."

"Ah well. It is always of assistance to know whom one is dealing with, from the beginning. Take notes Watson, will you? And, Dr. Woodnell", he returned to the vigorous young man, "your own occupation?"

Our visitor cleared his throat pompously. "I extensively studied the human mind, both in conditions of sanity and disturbance, and graduated _summa cum laude_ at St. George's University. I am something of an authority on the subject, having published several works of considerable importance in regard to the sickness and derange that can befall our spirits."

He inhaled deeply and his chest seemed to broaden with pride. "It was two years ago that I was given the position of director and chef practitioner at the lunacy home _Dew Dale_, in West Hampstead, where only the most severe cases of mental disorder are being treated."

I stifled an amused smile at his immense vanity and sought to give myself airs of being deeply impressed in order to please the young doctor. "Indeed!" I said in response. "Being a medical man myself, I find the topic an incredibly interesting one, but we are disgressing. Perhaps you would like to postpone the further elaboration of the subject to a later occasion, and continue to lay the facts of the case before us?"

For I had noticed, by way of a side glance, that Holmes was already suppressing the urge to yawn during the boastful report our guest issued of his own achievements. Mildly irritated, Dr. Woodnell paused a moment before continuing.

"Very well", he stated, "Matters stand thusly: Accepting the position I mentioned previously increased my income considerably, and in short time I saw myself within the means to settle down domestically. So I took a house in Bedford Square, the more distinguished retreat of my peers, furnished it and was from this point on the lookout for a mistress to the place."

Casting another sideways glance, I caught Holmes with a sardonical smirk on his face. If he had been peeved by our visitors previous self-praise, the doctor certainly had reached the zero point in his opinion with his recent statement. Oblivious to both our facial expressions, Dr. Woodnell carried on with his narrative.

"Last summer then, I made the acquaintance of Miss Harriet Coverley, in the house of my afore mentioned friend, Lord Montgrave, and a few weeks later, I was so fortunate as to obtain her hand in engagement. We are married six month now, gentlemen, and all way during this time there was nothing to foreshadow the terrible misfortune that was to befall us."

Dr. Woodnell hesitated, but Sherlock Homes silently bade him go on. Swallowing deeply, our young guest spoke:

"As I have mentioned beforehand, Lord Montgrave is a great patron of the arts, and I am something of a picture fancier myself. Thus, when I admired a fine series of Constables in his possession the other day, his generous soul went out to me and he offered to lend them to me, for myself, my wife and our friends to contemplate them thoroughly. I, as you can well imagine, was overjoyed with the offer and accepted it readily, and a couple of days later they were conveyed to us in a safety van. Now that they adorn the wall of our dining room, however, I wish with all my heart that I had never agreed to the borrow."

"Really?" Mr. Holmes remarked, his eye-lids half shut. " How so?"

"Why, such things don't remain a secret within society, sir", Dr. Woodnell answered. "People knew, of course. Someone in particular. Someone…I'm quite sure you must have heard of. Someone by the name of Montgomery Kenneth."

Sherlock Holmes' eyes flung open and were ablaze with curiosity in an instant. Yet just as quickly as the spark had been struck, it was re-covered with his customary composure as he observed:

"Certainly, Dr. Woodnell. This is interesting indeed. Pray continue."

"If you are familiar with his abominable person, Mr. Holmes", the doctor progressed, "it is not difficult for you to divine the sad conclusion of my narrative. Yesterday in the afternoon, whilst I was working at _Dew Dale,_ - "

" – your wife was abducted from your house", Holmes finished his sentence. "Quite perceivable indeed. In fact, exactly the kind of proceeding that befits a man such as Montgomery Kenneth – renowned master abductor and blackmailer."

Dr. Woodnell nodded miserably. "And now, can you fathom, sir, what it is he expects to gain through this villainous act?"

"The Constable series, I presume?"

"Exactly. He sent me a note, claiming all eight canvases in exchange for my wife, sound in body and mind. Should I reject - "

"Quite, quite. Have you discussed the option of forwarding the pictures with Lord Montgrave?"

The young man shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "He is absolutely in favour of doing so, should you be unwilling or unable to do something in the matter."

I couldn't restrain my admiration and exclaimed: " Marvellous! This is chivalry indeed!" Dr. Woodnell arched an eyebrow.

"A human life is at stake, doctor", he admonished me. "It is quite natural that Lord Montgrave should be so forthcoming…any gentleman would be. Moreover, he wouldn't suffer a monetary loss. Each and every one of the pictures is insured against abstraction, which covers forced delivery. It is, of course, a tragedy all the same. He is quite fond of his Constables, you see."

"Of course," I affirmed.

Sherlock Homes said nothing. He leaned back in his armchair, his legs stretched out towards the fire, and his fingertips steepled together, brows knitted in deep thought. He silently brooded for some five minutes, and our guest apparently started to get quite impatient, when my friend came back to life again.

"Kindly hand me the index, Watson", he demanded, "I – K will do, thank you."

He flipped through the pages of the volume I had given him with long, white fingers, until he had found the entry about Kenneth.

"Ah, there we are. Arthur Montgomery Kenneth, of unnotable birth, was raised in an orphanage in Whitechapel under the worst circumstances conceivable, worked in the docks several years, then turned to criminality, first burglary, then abduction. Compensates his lack of knowledge and education with uncommonly fierce intelligence and cunning. It appears – "

he let the book sink to his knees, eyes shining brightly,

" - that this particular foe is indeed deserving of our undivided attention. Dr. Woodnell? It would be helpful if we could arrange another meeting, as soon as convenient. Pray do bring Lord Montgrave, this time, it would be unwise to take any steps without his consent. In addition, I should like to know exactly which pictures are claimed by Monsieur Kenneth."

"I have a list of the titles with me", Angus Woodnell responded, retrieving a leaflet from his notebook, " and Alistair – Lord Montgrave – can show you copies of them, or you can come and see them at my house, whichever you prefer. Am I to understand that you take the case?"

Holmes gently inclined his head.

"Why, bless you, sir!"

The young doctor rose with energy, a faint flush of glee spreading on his handsome face.

"Very, very obliged sir – very obliged indeed."

My friend waved his thanks away with the weary gesture I only knew too well.

"I shall go to Lord Montgrave immediately", the doctor exclaimed, while I got his hat and cloak, "and arrange a meeting with him. No time must be lost – no time at all. I couldn't bear to leave my poor Harriet in the power of this malignant scoundrel one minute more than necessary."

"Of course, that is quite understandable", I said soothingly and gave him his things. "Do not worry, Dr. Woodnell – Mr. Holmes generally is able to arrange affairs to a satisfactory outcome."

"Certainly. Thank you, Dr. Watson – Mr. Holmes, sir."

The young man bowed, and left our room in a hurry. We heard the clatter of his shoes on the stairs, and a little later the distant bang of the door.

"Well", I said, turning around and rubbing my hands with content, "What do you intend to do first?"

Sherlock Holmes had drawn up his legs in the chair, his cherryroot-pipe stuck between his teeth, which he took out at my inquiry to fill it with shag tobacco.

"I intend to smoke", he said pensively, lighting the pipe and re-placing it between his lips.

Hooray, first chapter completed! Are you already intrigued? Or is everything elementary? Let me know what you think so far! I love to hear from you!


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: The Constables

I decided it would be wise to leave Mr. Holmes to himself for what remained of the day, as he neither let me partake in his cogitation, nor showed any signs that my presence was desired.

Therefore, I spent the afternoon at my club, returning home late, and learned from Mrs. Hudson that Mr. Holmes had already retired.

On the morrow, however, I was got up from my bedstead quite without ceremony, which aggravated me considerably, as it was Sunday and I am accustomed to something of a lie-in on the day of the Lord.

"Watson!"

Holmes yelled, swiftly pacing up and down behind the opening of my door, trying to adjust several pieces of his attire at the same time.

"We have an appointment at Bedford Square! Make haste!"

Still with the ring of his voice in my ears, I climbed out of my bed, got dressed and went downstairs, feet and gaze unsteady from lack of sleep.

To my astonishment, my friend by the time sat quite peacefully at the table, sipping his coffee. On my entering, he checked the watch on the chain of his morning-suit, observing:

"You are in time to have a bit of a breakfast before our departure, my dear fellow. Mrs. Hudson left us some prior to her going out on her day off. Sit down, and help yourself. There's eggs, toast, tea, pastries…no, not there!"

He jumped from his chair in order to prevent that I took seat on mine, grabbing a silver derringer revolver from the cushion. I admit that my sleepiness decreased in the course of seconds, and I staggered over to another seat, examining it carefully ere I sat down.

"No offence meant, my good doctor",

Holmes asserted, suavely gesticulating with the revolver.

"None taken",

I returned, all the same nervously shifting to get out of the fire-weapons target line.

"So, we are expected at Bedford Square? How do you know?"

"A telegraph was delivered by a runner an hour ago",

Holmes explained and tossed the slip of paper over to me, before he resumed his seat.

"We are bound to waste no time, as Dr. Woodnell requested. A creature as fiendish and horrible as Montgomery Kenneth – you have never heard of him, I presume?"

"Never."

"Well, one might call it a brand mark of quality in a professional rogue if that be the case. I could instance the ingenious Professor Moriarty if I wasn't loathe to move in circles. The long and short of it is, the man is known to me as far as rumour and reputation can form an acquaintance, and no further. I have never met him, nor can I hope to lay hands on any person that has. Yet this time we shall have him, Watson…the felony in question is all too audacious."

Another half an hour saw us on our way to Bloomsbury, where our client dwelled.

Holmes amused himself by driving with shut eyes, recounting the streets through which we passed.

His knowledge of the neighbourhood was even more perfect than of other places in London, for he, as he had once chanced to mention, had lived himself in the close vicinity of British Museum in his early days.

By the time we reached Bedford Square, domestic fortress of medicine, he had listed no less than 40 streets, alleyways and smaller throughfares, all in the correct order.

At number 72 the driver reigned in the horses, dropped us, and after calling on the valet we were swiftly ushered into a large, sunny sitting room where two gentlemen awaited us.

"Mr. Holmes!"

Dr. Woodnell cried,

"Dr. Watson!" he crossed the room with comely grace, and shook both our hands insistently.

"Thank you for coming so promptly!" he ejaculated.

"You have no idea how much it means to me to know you are in my back in this dreadful business! Alistair - ",

He called the other man,

"This is Sherlock Holmes, the gentleman whose praises you sang to me so often. And this is his friend and collegue, Dr. Watson."

Lord Montgrave quickly moved over and extended his hand to my friend.

"How do you do, sir" he said.

"I am indeed a great admirer of your work and would be much obliged if you could help us in the same way you have helped others before, who found themselves in similarly unpleasant situations."

Holmes confined himself to flashing his admirer the usual quick smile, that could as well be mistaken for a muscular spasm.

"And you, Doctor",

The Lord proceeded, taking my hand.

"I have read quite a lot of those capital narratives you write about your friends adventures. I can only express my hope that our current case will one day be converted into a tale with an equally happy ending."

"A prospect that is indeed to be hoped for",

I replied earnestly, scrutinizing Dr. Woodnells generous friend.

In appearance he was not unlike the doctor himself, while possessing little of the other mans personal charms, and having rather plain features bestowed upon him by his maker.

His whole demeanour was calmer and slower and somewhat less scintillating than that of Woodnell, and all his words and deeds were underlain with a note of mellowness and benevolence.

In a way he seemed to be affable enough, while I have often found such utter softness to be an indicator for some deficiency of character.

I soon became conscious of the fact that Holmes had also been running him over in silent contemplation, but, as soon became apparent, to a much different end. He simply said:

"I understand, Your Lordship, that you took degrees together with Dr. Woodnell here?"

"Indeed I did. Unfortunately, I never had the same genius and ambition as Angus, and after degrees decided that my career was not to be a scientific one."

"And much the better for your patients!" Holmes exclaimed.

"With your amount of piano practice, you could hardly afford the time to care for their needs."

The young Lord looked much confounded, and then burst into a short fit of laughter.

"Why yes, you're right there, Mr. Holmes! However did you deduce that?"

"The hands, Your Lordship", Holmes answered, reaching out for them without further ado.

"You see, Watson? The muscles between thumb and palm are, though hardly ever being required save for piano playing, amazingly well developed. One would like to draw a comparison to the muscular quality of a chicken wing. Above all, I find the marked flattening of the fingertips to be a tell-tale sign of such an occupation."

"Gorgeous!" Lord Montgrave enthused.

"Magnificent, Sir!"

"I would like now to take a look on the Constables", Holmes said, rather brusquely for my sensation.

"Where are they kept?"

"Please to follow me, Mr. Holmes", Dr. Woodnell replied with the dignity that becomes the master of the house.

To my explicit amusement he had stood sullen and moping for the time that the general attention had been towards Lord Montgrave.

Now however, his face radiated with importance, as he lead us into the adjoining dark-paneled dining room that contained little more than a long table with twelve chairs, and a series of the loveliest products of English draughtmanship that I have had the chance to behold.

They hung in a row on the wall, eight Constables, oil on canvas in gilded frames.

"Aren't they wonderful?"

Lord Montgrave stood in front of an oil sketch of a beach, turning his back on us.

"This, gentlemen, is _Brighton Beach_, a location that inspired Constable to numerous masterpieces, and this _Malvern Hall_, completed in 1809. Just see the depth of the shadows in the water! The sparse employ of bright colours, only used to highlight the central objects…"

He blabbed on, leaving us more or less undisturbed in our admiration of the artwork.

I, truth be told, was profoundly touched by the effective setting of the spacious and luminous scenes, and soon lost myself in the inspection.

Only once I flashed a glance at Holmes, whose tastes were, I was aware of it, rather towards more adventurous kinds of art, and yet even he betrayed signs of being quite impressed.

After all, there is nothing to beat a fine English landscape, if painted by a man who knows how to make good use of his brushes.

Nothing more was said for five minutes or more, the presence of the pictures sufficing to employ even the greatest minds for a while.

Eventually, Holmes broke the spell by lighting a cigarette and turning away from the beauteous playthings of his fellow men.

"Are you still in possession of the note – the one Mr. Kenneth was so good as to convey to you?" he asked Dr. Woodnell.

"I am – threw it into the fireplace in my first despair, but Scott Staunchill – that's my secretary – picked it out again."

Mr. Holmes clapped his hands together.

"In this case, let me see them both – the note and the obliging youth."

"Certainly, if you wish it."

Dr. Woodnell went to the mantelpiece to ring the bell.

"What do you think of my pictures, Mr. Holmes?" Lord Montgrave desired to know in a wailing tone, like a child that is to be deprived of its favourite pastime.

Holmes' glance drifted back to the pictures, then to the owner.

"They're genuine", he said, rather short clipped.

The next instant, Mr. Staunchill entered, and I was only left the time to think how little lordly Montgraves appearance was, and how much more fitting it would be if his and dr. Woodnells positions were exchanged.

"Mr. Staunchill", the doctor said in a businesslike manner,

"These gentlemen are Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. They will help us in clearing up the disappearance of my wife, and would like to see the note you handed me the other day – the one I threw into the fire."

"Certainly. I shall go and get it."

He left the room.

"Mr. Staunchill is my right hand", Dr. Woodnell explained.

"He has been with me these two years, and together we have achieved quite a lot in the reformation of the treatment of lunacy. He is not excessively bright, naturally, but very diligent and absolutely reliable. Currently, he is writing a monograph at my dictation that deals with schizophrenia in its various forms of appearance. It is quite my expertise. I should think that neither professional nor amateur has occupied himself with the matter as much as I have. In fact, I daresay…"

He prattled on in this fashion, until Mr. Staunchill returned.

He was a very short, plump gentleman, with glasses and brownish, golden-flecked hair.

He seemed to be about the same age as his employer, or little younger.

My first impression was that he was indeed a model secretary, everything in his behavior indicating this.

At the same time, he appeared to be somewhat shy, for he winced as he wanted to forward the paper to Mr. Holmes, handing it to my less intimidating self instead.

I sat down on one of the twelve chairs, and with Holmes leaning over my shoulder read what was typed on the cheap, unclean paper:

_Mister Woodnell – _

_Not to worry, your goode lady wive is in a safe plaice and won't come to griff if you do as I say._

_Meet me under the great oack tree on Hampsted Heethe, Monday in the early morning, when it's dawnish-like._

_Do as I tell you._

_Bring the eight valuble pictures that poky friend of yours gave you._

_Do not bring a police oficer or fire arms, or that pretty wive of yours won't be speared harm._

_Montgomery Kenneth_

By the time I had finished reading, Mr. Holmes has reached out for the letter. Lifting it to his nose and sniffing it lightly, he announced:

"I should need to examine your wife's room next, Dr. Woodnell."

"Her room?" The doctor said in surprise.

"Whatever for?"

"Well, it is quite probable that it was the scene of the abduction, don't you agree? Since, as you have indicated, the crime was perpetrated in the late afternoon, she was most likely in her room, dressing for dinner. Ladies have a certain inclination to spend a lot time dressing for dinner, I observe."

"That may well be…we haven't given it any thought yet. You are free to examine everything you believe might be related to the cause."

"Excellent. And - "

Holmes turned swiftly towards the shrinking Mr. Staunchill, "Could this co-operative young man – and Dr. Watson – join me in my investigation?"

"You want Scott?"

Dr. Woodnells surprise augmented even more, and also Lord Montgrave seemed astonished in the extreme.

"Well, if you think it might help."

"I _do_ think so", Holmes emphasized, and laying one hand on my shoulder and the other on the apparently very nervous Mr. Staunchill's he conducted us imperatively from the room.

**The game is afoot! First of all, I would like to thank you for your kind reviews (not every reader takes the time – me, for instance *cough*) and as you may have noticed, I hurried to edit chapter one a-new, hopefully it's an easier read now. BTW, it was a good opportunity to mend minor mistakes – like, some of my "Homeses" apparently couldn't afford an "l". But jay! You seem to like it! I am so happy. And because I'm happy, I refrain from further chattering…on with the next chapter!**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: The lady vanishes

Holmes had hardly closed the door behind us, when I marked that Dr. Woodnells secretary had started to tremble slightly.

The poor chap looked everything but happy and had his wide short-sighted eyes fixed on my friend with some considerable anguish.

"Mr. Holmes", he squealed,

"much as I wish to be of assistance, I'm afraid I have little to no experience in this particular kind of investigation. Therefore I am not convinced I can do what is required of me…"

"Calm yourself, Mr. Staunchill",

Holmes said quite amiably,

"there is, at present, nothing further required of you than to show me the location of Mr. Woodnells room. Would you be so kind as to do that?"

"Certainly – certainly, sir…"

Mr. Staunchill, obviously unsure of his role in the whole affair, led us through the hallway and into the staircase.

"This way, gentlemen…"

We followed the stout, short man, who moved with maddening slowness, which was quite remarkable, taken into consideration that he was in his mid-twenties at the most.

"Mr. and Mrs. Woodnell haven't been married long, have they?"

Holmes inquired in a light, conversional tone.

"Half a year now, sir."

"And are they much in love?"

Mr. Staunchill, to my irritation, halted and turned around on the landing.

"Very", he uttered gravely.

"In all my life I never saw a man and a woman so dote on each other as those two. He worships her, and she lays the world beneath his feet."

"Oh? She must be very young."

"Mrs. Woodnell is two and twenty."

"And if – heavens forefend – something happened to her, Dr. Woodnell naturally would be very upset?"

At this prospect, Mr. Staunchill seemed to be seized by great agitation.

"Sir", he said,

"I must ask you never to mention such a notion in front of the doctor. It would not only upset him – he would be devastated. Promise me you will restore peace to this deserving man, Mr. Holmes – he so much shaken by misfortune already."

"Is he, now?" I demanded, filled with intrigue.

What the secretary said made no sense to me, for it seemed that Dr. Woodnell was one of those lucky men that have everything they long for drop into their laps.

Mr. Staunchill, however, earnestly contradicted my assumption.

"Oh yes, gentlemen – fate has never made the gift of a farthing to Angus Woodnell. Descending of a family with limited means, he had to fight his way with scholarships and later was forced to take loans in order to pursue his studies. Nowadays, things go smoothly for him in regard to business – but in his private life he is as much a haunted soul as ever. When he took the position of director in _Dew Dale_, can you imagine who was the first new patient in his charge? His grandmother – yes gentlemen, a lunatic from his very own family. She is still there – must be kept in a single cell, as she is of a dangerous and violent disposition, and her food can only be brought in quickly when she sleeps. Every day when I pass her door on my inspection round, I can hear her howling cries. She is known to the whole area, as she can be seen from the street as she raves by the window, clenching her teeth and shaking her fists at the passers-by."

Mr. Staunchill shuddered.

"And now this calamity!" he exclaimed.

"If Mrs. Woodnell comes to harm, how is the doctor going to bear it?"

"How indeed?",Sherlock Holmes muttered.

He fell silent and Mr. Staunchill resumed his trot, bringing us to the top landing eventually.

"And Lord Montgrave?" Holmes suddenly asked.

"Don't you think he will be grieved to lose his superb collection?"

"I don't know about that, sir", Mr. Staunchill replied.

I was under the impression that he chose his words with great care.

"But I rather think that the pecuniary compensation that he will receive from the insurance is an appropriate solatium, and his chief interest at the moment."

"Ha! So you hold the opinion that it is the material worth rather than the sentimental value of the pictures that is foremost in his considerations?"

"I might say it is not too much to presume, if I'm allowed."

"This is highly improbable", I interjected.

"Lord Montgrave is a connoisseur to whom the work of art is everything. Besides, why should he take a great interest in the money? I understand he is in the possession of a large fortune."

Something rather sly appeared in Mr. Staunchill's expression.

"Is he? I'm not altogether sure, sir."

"But, certainly it is obvious that…"

"Did you notice the fashion in which he framed his precious Constables, doctor?" Woodnell's secretary interrupted me.

"How he framed them? Whatever can you mean by this?"

Holmes had drawn his eyebrows together and stroked his lips with the thumb, flashing me a quick smile at my utterance.

"Once more, my dear fellow, you observed absolutely everything save the essential fact. What Mr. Staunchill wants to imply is that the frames of the pictures are gilded…not massive gold. Is that not so, Mr. Staunchill?"

"Assuredly, Mr. Holmes. That was what I wished to draw your attention to."

"Quite so. Now, which of these doors leads to the room of the kidnapped lady?"

"The second on the left", Mr. Staunchill answered readily.

"Shall I…"

"Oh no, my good sir, I think we have taken up quite enough of your valuable time. One more question only: Can you conceive any stratagem by which the criminal could have found his way into the house and left unnoticed, not to mention taking the mistress of the house with him?"

"None at all. Dr. Woodnell has hired footmen for the durance of the Constables' visit to Bedford Square, and has positioned them at every entrance to the house, for fear that an attempt at burglary should be made."

"Thank you. You have been of great assistance to me."

"Really?" The secretary looked a little bewildered.

"Well, I am glad you should think so. Goodbye, gentlemen. I hope your errand will be a successful one."

With these words he disappeared downstairs, and we entered the bedroom of Dr. Woodnells wife.

It was light and lofty, with nice, brightly patterned tapestry and large windows, from whence a backyard filled with lilac bushes and the roof of a carriage depot could be seen.

Most of the space was taken up by a fourposter, a teak closet and a lovely biedermeier desk in front of the windows. In the corner was a high porcelain vase filled with birds of paradise.

There were two adjoining chambers one of which was apparently used as a boudoir, the other being stacked with trunks and suitcases of various sizes.

Lost in thought, I picked up the several small items that were strewn on the table-top picturesquely.

There was a framed sepia photograph of Dr. Woodnell, a japanese black lacquered pencil-case, a dainty bunch of keys and a box of belgian chocolate.

In wonder and adoration I contemplated the endearing little treasures of womankind, the state of my own desk and our dwelling in general crossing my mind, which was more often than not due to Holmes' incredible untidiness.

The object of my brief flash of irritation behaved in his characteristic manner, dashing in and out of the chambers, throwing himself flatly on the floor and crawling under the bed, whose owner surely would have frowned at the strange conduct, had she been with us at the time.

He reappeared within a matter of moments, however, rising from the floor and observing:

"I think we may now join Dr. Woodnell and the Lord downstairs. I have seen everything that is to be seen here."

I couldn't refrain from a little gibe.

"There was nothing under the ladies bed, then?"

He threw me a glance of measured contempt.

"I always look under a woman's bed as a matter of routine. Usually, it is where the things of interest are to be found…not in the obvious places you are so fond of examining."

Guiltily, I put down the Belgian chocolate and followed my friend, who stormed out of the room and down the stairs.

"Have you seen – and deduced – anything at all, then?" I panted, trying to keep his pace.

"I have!"

He threw open the door and marched into the dining room, where the doctor and his friend, who had stood in quiet conversation, turned around rapidly at his unannounced intrusion.

"Dr. Woodnell", Holmes demanded without circumlocution,

"could you think of any reason why your wife should have left the house voluntarily and without your knowledge?"

"Why, what do you mean?" the puzzled man returned.

"I have reason to believe that she either went with her abductor without any offer of resistance, or else left the house alone for an unknown purpose."

The doctor's sightly head suddenly swelled with anger.

"Sir, what you imply is outrageous! Why on earth should my wife do such a thing?"

"I have asked myself the same question", Holmes replied acerbically,

"but having it repeated instead of an answer is not a very auspicious beginning."

It seemed Dr. Woodnell had lost his ability of speech temporarily, so Lord Montgrave interposed quickly:

"Mr. Holmes, surely your conclusions are a little premature on this occasion. Fact remains that Harriet is a most dutiful wife who would never dream of betraying her husband's trust in this fashion."

It was clear to see that my friend's patience was waning, yet with a little effort he said courteously:

"I meant no insult, to be sure. I simply wanted to inquire if Dr. Woodnell could conceive any cause that would make his wife disappear from the house of her own will."

"Certainly not!" Dr. Woodnell wuthered.

"There is unlimited trust between my wife and myself. I love her and she loves me, we are happy."

"Of course. I thought as much",

Mr. Holmes remarked with some asperity.

"Well, in this case I had better continue my investigations somewhere less harmonious."

He made for the door and I hastened to catch up with him, when Lord Montgrave called:

"But the pictures, Mr. Holmes? You haven't recommended a course of action concerning those!"

Holmes turned around on the heel and gazed at the young Lord, who stood somewhat helplessly next to his enraged friend.

"I propose, Your Lordship",

He said with marked politeness,

"that on this particular occasion the course of action recommended by the criminal himself might be the wisest one. A very good afternoon, gentlemen."

Thus we left Bedford Square.

Holmes still fumed when we were seated in the carriage and on our way back home.

For my own good, I determined not to question the correctness of his behavior, and instead inquired:

"What makes you so sure Mrs. Woodnell left voluntarily, old chap? You said you had strong reason to believe it."

"It should be obvious even to the most untrained of eyes", he snapped,

"that if in a store room for _suitcases_, there is an oblong impression in the dust on top of a _suitcase_, a _suitcase_ is the most likely object to have been removed from the place."

"So it seems",

I conceded, swallowing his reproach, which was in order to be honest, as I had hardly spent so much as a glance on the store room.

"Indeed."

My companion seemed a little pacified.

"But consider, Watson! How many women that are assailed and abducted do have the time to pack a suitcase for their convenience during the absence from home?"

"It is true", I said hesitantly.

"Yet, if it is as Mr. Staunchill, Lord Montgrave and Dr. Woodnell claimed in unison…"

"Exactly. Cabby!"

The carriage came to a halt in front of 221b.

"There remains, of course, the possibility that the recent removal of a suitcase is merely coincidental", I suggested.

Holmes snorted derisively, pushing the key into the keyhole with decided insistence.

"Fiddlesticks, Watson! Take the facts into consideration! Disappeared lady – disappeared suitcase, and both at about the same time. Mrs. Hudson!"

He bellowed, making me jump with alarm.

There was no reply.

Holmes' brows furrowed, and his face assumed a veritably frightening aspect.

"Miss-es Hud-son!" he shouted, angered by her tardiness.

Yet for once, I had been quicker in observation than my friend.

I dived to the floor and picked up the white envelope that lay on the doormat.

When I opened it, the typewritten letter it contained ran thus:

_My dear Mr. Holmes,_

_It came to my knowledge that you take an interest in a case that has to do with certain artworks. _

_I recommend you drop it at once, else there might be deplorable consequences for your landlady._

_If you value her life, stay clear of the entire affair._

_With the very best regards,_

_Montgomery Kenneth._

**So far! Oh , as I can see you have already drawn suppositions, which is just awesome. However, don't expect me to say either yes or no! After all, it doesn't do to give oneself away by premature explanations. Guess who taught me that? **

**As to Staunchill, all there's left to say is: "**_Human nature is a strange mixture"_** (The adventure of the Stockbroker's Clerk).**

**Thanks for your reviews, they mean a lot to me! See you next chapter! Love, .**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter four: Hampstead Heath

I stood confounded at the dreadful message for several minutes, reading it over and over again, ere the full horror of our situation came upon me.

"Holmes", I said finally, "you will have to drop the other business, old chap."

"Blast!" was the only commentary Mr. Holmes deigned to give, along with an annoyed grunt.

He snatched the letter away from me and walked up and down our small hallway.

"There you have it, Watson. This is what happens if one is so careless as to attach oneself personally to another. If I could handle Mrs, Hudson's case with the same equanimity as the other matter, it would facilitate matters immensely. In this instance, however, my hands are shackled with the bonds of amity", he groused.

"not that I didn't anticipate action on the part of Kenneth, only I thought that…"

"You expected something like this to happen?" I ejaculated with some considerable agitation.

"Then, why didn't you take steps to prevent it, man?"

"I did…only it seems I mistook the target of the assumed action."

"I can't follow you there. Which target?"

Holmes turned around swiftly, clasping his hands.

"Watson, as you know I am a man with little to no friends it would be worth while to abduct. There are, of course, Victor Trevor and my brother Mycroft, but with the former planting tea in Terai and the latter being securely enveloped in the walls of Whitehall, you will agree with me that any attempt at kidnap would be futile. So who remained to be abducted? Naturally, I presumed it would be you who would inspire the greatest interest in this man Kenneth!"

"Me?" I swallowed.

My mind reeled.

"And you – you took steps to prevent it, didn't you?"

"Of course I did. It may have escaped your notice, but ever since Dr. Woodnell came to Bakerstreet, you left the house either with me or under close observation."

"I saw a group of boys lingering in close proximity of my club."

"Precisely. It was Wiggin's street arabs. I deemed it sufficient protection to have them follow you."

"Yes", I grumbled, slightly aggravated with his hesitation to tell me, as if I was an infant in need of protection.

"Yet it appears you have underestimated your enemy. He expected you would think of me first as your only friend, and for lack of a fiancée or particular lady friend, he snatched the only lady friend you have in the world."

"Brag and bounce, Watson, he is a clever devil. Oh, didn't I tell you? Didn't I tell you over and over again? You must not have _any_ relations in my profession. But then, of course, I'm far from being the ideal investigator you like to portray. Now that I have been foolish enough to expose myself to this peril, I must make my bed and lie in it."

"Quite literally", I groaned, the effects of Mrs. Hudson's absence already upon me.

"We should go and have tea somewhere, old chap."

Holmes gave no answer.

"After all", I endeavoured to console him,

"if we refrain from acting for Dr. Woodnell and the Lord until tomorrow, we will have her back in short time, I'm sure."

He bestowed a most scornful glance on me.

"On the contrary! I refuse to resign. There is something that can be done, I'll wager."

"But Holmes, what can we hope to do? If we searched for her, she would hardly thank us. This letter clearly indicates…"

"My dear doctor, this latter indicates nothing at all. You know I would hate to get any lady into danger, but the note says practically nothing about our expected demeanour concerning Mrs. Hudson. If I am not very much mistaken, we will fulfill our part of the deal by keeping our noses out of that Bedford Square affair. Don't you agree?"

"Yes, but where are you going?" I stammered, for he had already flung open the door and was out in the street, waving for a hansom cab to draw up.

"Holmes!"

"We're bound for Hampstead, Watson!" he cried, suddenly recovering some of his good humour.

"Come along!"

Indeed we were going to Hampstead, for as chance would have it, Mrs. Hudson's sister, who she was in the habit of visiting on Sundays, lived in a house on the fringes of Hampstead Heath. Her name, as we had learned from occasional remarks of our landlady, was Brackley, and she was her junior some fifteen years or thereabouts.

To the best of our knowledge, Mrs. Hudson usually went there in the morning, spent some hours with the family and stayed for lunch, ere she returned to Bakerstreet.

Our welcome was a frosty one, to say the least. On opening the door, Mrs. Brackley applied a close scrutiny to us, stating:

"A starved hawk-nose and a thick-set moustache. You must be Holmes and Watson."

We exchanged a glance of mild amusement at the way she emphasized our least flattering features, before Holmes replied:

"Indeed we are, madam. I take it we come not unexpected?"

"Inconvenient, rather", Mrs. Brackley snapped.

"But now that you're here, you may as well come in."

Following her amiable invitation, Holmes and I were lead through a somber passageway into a wainscoted library, the large single window allowing a wonderful view over the small serpentine that streamed past the house and that was crossed by a bridge, connecting the premises with the Heath.

At a round table in the corner an elderly gentleman and a sullen girl of fifteen or sixteen were seated, engaged in a game of chess.

On our intrusion, they lifted their heads in surprise.

Mrs. Brackley tightly folded her hands in front of her apron, the corners of her mouth tugging upwards in the most involuntary of smiles.

"My husband, Major Brackley, and our daughter Rosamond."

Hastily I took my hat off to them, but on realizing it as the only reaction from any of the persons present, I suppressed my greetings and uncertainly looked at Mrs. Brackley for guidance.

She was undoubtedly a good deal younger than our landlady, and also more energetic and unrelenting, her ginger hair and matronly attire somehow evoking the impression that it was her rather than the Major who was in charge here.

Her husband seemed peaceful enough, a common occurrence where there are commanding wives I daresay.

The young girl, Rosamond, greatly took after the mother with her defiant expression and the sandy head.

I understood Mrs. Hudson's sister had several children, but presumed that the rest of them had left home already.

"Well, Mr. Holmes", Mrs. Brackley interrupted my reflections,

"the deed is done, and nothing can make it undone. Mark, however, that I hold you responsible for Augusta's disappearance. There, now don't give me that look. You know as well as I do that without your constant meddling in affairs that don't concern you, she would be safe now and with us."

Holmes inclined his head in acceptance.

"What you say may be justified to a certain degree, madam. I am, however, about to make such amends as are in my power to restore."

"And I will hold you to that!" Mrs. Brackley said with a sharp edge to her words.

"If you don't bring her back until tomorrow, I shall emblaze the flames of hell under your feet, rest assured."

Sherlock Holmes heroically faced her glare, declaring:

"You give me a somewhat tight schedule there, madam. Anyway, I will try to fulfill your demands, _you_ rest assured. And to start with the beginning", he commenced, pacing up and down the library, hands clasped behind his back,

"what time did your sister arrive at the house?"

"Hear, hear", Major Brackley said, taking the word for the first time.

"There's a bright fellow. How do you know she came here at all? Might have disappeared beforehand, for all that you know."

"Quite so. Yet, somebody has been playing bridge with her, the cards I behold next to the chessboard featuring all those deplorable mistakes Mrs. Hudson, I'm afraid, is prone to make. The set of cards has quite the characteristic layout, I perceive. What time, then?" he repeated, turning to Mrs. Brackley, who returned his glance sinisterly.

"It was at quarter past nine. My husband fetched her from the underground station." "I see. The visits she paid you had a regular pattern, as far as I know?"

"Don't know what you mean by that", Mrs. Brackley said sourly.

"I played bridge with her as usual. At eleven o' clock we had tea, and afterwards it occurred. We have a custom, my sister and I, of taking a small constitutional after tea, but today I was unable to accompany her."

"Why?"

"Lumbago, Mr. Holmes", Mrs. Brackley returned, obviously annoyed at the necessity to lay open her most private affairs.

"Had quite a bad attack last night. Anyhow, my sister went out on the Heath all the same and never came back."

"Indeed", Mr. Holmes said pensively, lighting a cigarette.

"Oh, may I?" he asked, somewhat belatedly.

Mrs. Brackley seemed to fume inwardly as bad as the cigarette at the question she took quite correctly to be a merely rhetorical one.

Yet she remained silent.

Inhaling deeply, Mr. Holmes inquired:

"Perceiving that you and your sister did everything according to a neat scheme in that most likable feminine way of yours, it is not too much to presume that you took the same route every time."

"We did."

"Where to?"

"Augusta and I are very fond of Branch Hill Pond. We used to play there as children. Our way always brought us there, and then back again, for my feet are not what they used to be."

"Quite so. Now, since you are not of too much use _per pedes_, perhaps your husband would be as good as to show us the itinerary…?"

"With pleasure, sir", Major Brackley acquiesced, after having thrown a quick glance in his wife's direction.

"If you would be prepared to wait one minute more…I'm going to get my galoshes."

He rose from the table and left the room, leaving Rosamond sulking over the unfinished game of chess.

Hampstead Heath was flooded with light, the glorious sunshine of spring time, the season when everything is preparing to meet an appointment with summer with as much glamour as can be raised.

The abundant dew on the grass wetted our shoes as we crossed ascended the hill that had given the pond its name, the bushes around us astir with the chirrup of birds.

Major Brackley, while possibly a better walker than his wife, kept a very slow pace and had soon fallen behind us, the tip of his cane our only guide on an occasional glance backwards.

When we finally reached the ridge of the hill, the pond lay beneath us, glistening in cold hues.

Holmes turned back to the Major, who was making his way up the slope, giving him a sign to take his time.

Then he lowered himself onto a bench and remarked:

"So this is Branch Hill Pond, the place that held many joys for young Mrs. Hudson as well as for one John Constable, who painted it, if memory serves, in 1825. I wonder what it may have in store for us."

"Indeed", I acceded, walking here and there, while waiting for the Major to come into view.

Truth be told, the Heath inspired myself to recollections of bygone times, when a rifle was but a stick of wood and little white Indians made their way through the undergrowth, on silent feet.

It couldn't possibly be told to how many children the Heath had been highlands, jungle, tundra or pampa.

One might think that…my feet stopped.

Something bright, something small and very much crumpled had caught my eye.

Presumably it had hung there in the hedge, before it fluttered down among the clusters of daffodils.

"Holmes!" I called, "over here!"

With two strides of his long legs, he was by my side.

"What is it, Watson?"

I had got down on my knees, gathering the formerly white tissue.

"A gentleman's handkerchief, I'm sure", Holmes remarked in a weary tone, as if I had given false alarm a hundred times before.

In fact, it was a gentleman's handkerchief as could be plainly seen, and when I straightened out the bright damask, it was – "

"Mine!" I breathed. "It's my own handkerchief!"

"What?" Holmes uttered sharply, ere he condescended to a more courteous style of asking.

"How is that possible?"

"I wonder…"

I turned the plain white tissue with the embroidered _Dr.W._ over in my hands several times, when it suddenly came back to me.

"Of course! It has been some days ago, hence it slipped my mind. You were out on some errand or other, so I asked Mrs. Hudson to have tea with me. By a little accident for which I take the blame, one of the cups was upset and the content spilled. I lent Mrs. Hudson a handkerchief to dry her hands with…"

Holmes' inquisitive eyes fixed on the piece of damask in my hands.

"Watson", he said, his agitation subtle yet perceivable, "are you _quite_ sure this is yours?"

"I believe so…"

Shrugging my shoulders, I lifted the thing up for closer inspection.

"Must be, with the embroidery and all that, I suppose."

He shook his head.

"No, no, no, I can't agree with you there. To my knowledge, that handkerchief might belong to any doctor in this great, big city whose name commenced with a "W"."

Lowering his voice, he whispered insistently:

"_Consider_, Watson! Has it not occurred to you that the "W" might stand for Woodnell?"

I started.

"Hang it all, you're right, Holmes! But how can that…?"

"Shhh!"

He put the index to his lips and nodded into the direction of the Major, who had finally reached the hilltop and now approached us rapidly.

"I must ask you, my dear chap, not to mention our finding to Major Brackley. It could upset him terribly."

He turned away from me and waved at the heavily breathing man, who had caught up with us at last.

"I beg your pardon for my snails-pace, gentlemen", he panted,

"but that hill is quite a challenge for a fellow of my age, you see."

"It is we who need to apologize", Holmes said jovially, taking the man by the wrist,

"We hurried you up here unnecessarily and only have succeeded in quickening your pulse. Is it not quickened mightily, doctor?", he asked.

"Undoubtedly", I replied, feeling the other man's wrist.

"Well, now that we know where we are, I suggest you take a seat on the bench over there until you're better, and then head for home. It will do you much good not to mention spare you a share in our tiresome proceedings, I reckon."

"Why, …yes, if you think you won't want me, I believe I shall", the exhausted man returned, his face betraying a good deal of relief.

He ambled leisurely away, never turning his head.

"You know, Holmes", I said to my friend, who retrieved his magnifying lens from its case,

"I don't think Major Brackleys pulse was increased one whit!"

He chuckled.

"All the same, Watson, we are by ourselves now. Nothing could be better!"

He kneeled and examined the ground on which we stood.

"There's your footprints…and there are mine…but there must be…must be…"

He disappeared behind the hedge.

"Here, Watson!" I heard him call.

I hurried to join him, not a little surprised at the grave expression of his face.

"Here", he only said.

I looked to the ground, and on doing so, my heart turned to water.

Someone must have gone the grassy path down to the pond, but whoever it had been, his footprints had been extinguished by the large, heavy object he had dragged behind him.

"Come", my companion muttered, "quick!"

We rushed down the path, eyes kept closely to the ground, until we reached one of the small banks, overhung by a group of shady, densely foliaged trees.

"Oh…no."

I swallowed deeply, my arms loosely hanging by my sides as if not parts of my body.

On the fringes of the pond, a thin, black clad arm stuck out of the water, white cuffs encircling the wrist of a small, wrinkled hand.

White hair floated on the dark surface of the pool.

"It's terrible."

**Gee whizz! No "Mrs. Hud-sooon!" anymore.**

**Anyhow, I really must tell you I am deeply touched by the kindness of my readers, who provide the necessary motivation for me to keep on writing. Thx a lot. You're positively super-cali-fragi-listic-expi-ali-docious.**

**But alas! The next chapters **_**might **_**be a bit of a wait, with my new university courses coming up next week and blasted real life in general. Hope to do some more chapters at the weekend, but we'll see.**

**So long!**


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter five: Second consultation

Struck with the sense of loss, I turned away from the tragedy. The world seemed to me a place of hideousness, populated with creatures that executed their heinous schemes on the back of honest people. It disgusted me. To think, to imagine, that Mrs. Hudson would be no more... For a short, blissful moment, I heard the faint rustle of a skirt and the clink of china, and I beheld a warm and tender smile. Then even that died away and left…emptiness.

I f Holmes was affected or moved in any way, he did not see fit to express it. Leaving me where I stood under the trees, he rushed to the side of the corpse, kneeling beside it. I made no attempt at consolation, lest he be offended. His peculiarity in matters of sentiment was known to me, and I dared not approach him until he would have recovered his customary cool aloofness. I do not believe he would ever forgive me if I caught him in a moment of woe, the very notion hateful to his mind.

I was roused from my doleful reverie, when he said calmly: "It has been less than six hours. Clean blow on the back of her head, I perceive. I must confess being – " he rose to his feet, "somewhat astonished. I think I hardly ever had a case where the earthly remains of the deceased dissolved so strongly in so short a time, notwithstanding the quality of the water in which the body has been disposed of."

My head turned in indignation. Was the fellow out of his mind? "Stop it, Holmes!" I shouted. "Would she come back to life if I did? My dear Watson, you should take a look at her bloated visage. It is quite remarkable."

It was there, for the first and only time during our acquaintance, that I wanted to fly at the other man's throat. "Holmes, I forbid you to talk about Mrs. Hudson in this fashion! It is callous, improper and ungrateful in the extreme! Have you no heart?"

He stood motionless, only shaken by a subtle fit of merriment, which horrified me. "My good doctor, even though I must concur with in each and every respect, I would like you to open your eyes to the fact that this unhappy woman is _not_ Mrs. Hudson."

"Is it – is it true?"

I leaped to his side as if stung by the tarantula, and bent over the corpse.

She was, as Holmes had stated, already much advanced in the process of decay, her pale face swollen dreadfully and close to an unrecognizable condition. Her hair was of the same, streakless whiteness as that of our landlady, yet in stature she appeared to be much taller, and her nose was long and prominent.

I lifted my glance to Holmes, and in spite of his unfeeling immovability, I would have liked to get up and hug the beastly man, had I not apprehended the consequences.

"Why – " I spluttered, "it's not her!"

I laughed and giggled like a madman, ashamed now that I write it down, given the close proximity to death in which we found ourselves.

"It's not her, Holmes!"

"You don't say, Watson", my companion flared at me.

"Once more, it seems, you allowed yourself to be carried away by unchecked presumption and over-emotiveness. It is just as well I am with you, or else you might have gone to get yourself torn to pieces by Mrs. Brackley, without even ascertaining the body's identity."

I did not feel his harsh rebuke, bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet in the most undignified manner.

"What will we do next, dear chap?"

"We shall report the murder to Scotland Yard. Friend Lestrade will be overjoyed to see us, as it must be quite over a month that we last molested him."

"Alright!"

I was on my way ahead of him, jumping over sticks and stones in my unutterable relief.

"Hurry up, Holmes!"

He came after me, his brow furrowed in deep thought.

"Is something the matter?" I inquired solicitously.

"Nothing at all. I just caught sight of the great oak – which is, as you will remember, the supposed meeting spot of Dr. Woodnell and Montgomery Kenneth for tonight."

"Indeed!" I halted and mused a little while.

My exhilaration surely had given me a tendency towards recklessness, but I did not feel it at the time.

"I say, Holmes! Why don't we get under cover and watch the whole thing? Then we could intervene if necessary, and after the exchange has taken place, we could…"

"No!"

My friend sounded positively final.

"We can do nothing about it. Mind that Mrs. Hudson is still in the power of the rogue. Furthermore, we cannot risk getting the life of Mrs. Woodnell into jeopardy."

"Ah, yes…" I acquiesced, remembering the distinct threat that she would be "speared no harm".

"Well, you are right as always, I suppose."

The stuffy air in the morgue has no effect on me, I have been a doctor to long. Nor does the sight of dead bodies in any condition repel me in the least.

Inspector Lestrade, however, made quite a face at the water corpse, whos suffocating smell invaded our senses like acid, penetrating and persistent.

"Well, gentlemen…she's been dead only a couple of hours, I believe you said?"

Inspector Lestrade drew breath hastily and replaced his handkerchief over the lower part of his face. He appeared to be determined to talk as little as possible, in order to avoid the odour that wafted from the dead woman.

"Some five or six hours, according to my estimation", Mr. Holmes replied.

"But the doctor will be able to be more precise, I have no doubt."

"That is not necessary at present…my police surgeons will see to that", Lestrade mumbled with watering eyes.

"Good heavens, what a mess. We will have a hard time identifying her, what with the brackish water she lay in is rendered nearly impossible. You have no clue as to her identity, I take it?" he said hopefully.

"No! Imagine, we nearly mistook her for Mrs. Hud – " I commenced, having Sherlock Holmes quickly stepping on my foot.

"No clue whatsoever. Tell me, Lestrade, do you have a lot of work just now?"

The inspector looked at him in bewilderment.

"Well, not an awful lot, Mr. Holmes. There's a few charges against pickpockets, a robbery or two, but that is all at present."

"So you would be ready at my summons during, say, the impending twenty four hours?"

"Why, what do you want me for? Certainly there is nothing you withheld from the knowledge of the police, is it?" Lestrade demanded in an accusing tone.

A smile curled the lips of Sherlock Holmes.

"Of course not. However, are you prepared to assist us should the need arise by any chance?"

He knew too well the inspector could not decline. During the years, he had aspired to greater honours than he would have been capable of if left to himself, and the abundant aid he had received from my friend obliged him to render a service in return.

"Very well", he grumbled. "What do you want me to do?"

"That remains to be seen. Just be on the alert, inspector. Meanwhile, I suggest, we should withdraw from the not altogether pleasant surroundings of the Scotland Yard morgue."

He rambled towards the exit, swinging his cane, and we hurried to follow in his wake.

On the morning of the following day, it was Monday, we had an early visitor. I had just finished my tea, rough-and-readily prepared by the page, when a knock on the door retrieved Mr. Holmes from his room.

"Who may that be?" I wondered aloud, folding my napkin and laying it on the table.

"Lord Montgrave, to judge on probability, the courteous waiting for an answer and the sound of his steps", Holmes observed absentmindedly, hurrying to the door.

The Lord it was, and before entering our room, he delicately shook the umbrella the frequent change of weather in our city had caused him to bring. After being liberated of his wet things by the boy, our visitor let himself be directed towards the fire, giving me a brief nod in passing.

"Pray take a seat, Your Lordship. I can see you have an urgent request, and after a cup of coffee we will see to it at once, I promise. Mrs. Hud – "

He interrupted his own cry, remembering its futility, and sat down opposite to the Lord, his face assuming a most gloomy expression. It had been this way for the whole of the previous evening, with him barking "Mrs. Hudson!" and stopping dead, his temper worsening by degrees. I could not blame him, for I knew he was used to the comfort our landlady habitually provided, spoiling us quite a bit I daresay, but nonetheless, I thought when I hurried to bring the coffee instead, he _might_ have treated me with a little consideration, as we found ourselves in the same inconvenience.

Flashing a quick smile of thanks at me, Lord Montgrave took his cup, saying:

"I am the bearer of good news, Mr. Holmes, or at least the best conceivable under these circumstances. The exchange has taken place and Mrs. Woodnell is back, safe and unharmed. The Constables however – "he lowered his gaze sadly, "are gone."

"I see. And now you expect me to regain them, notwithstanding your friend's behaviour the other day, clearly indicating that my further assistance was not desired?"

"He didn't mean it, Mr. Holmes, I'm positive. Moreover, it is not Angus that I am pleading for. It is myself. I beg you to consider, sir, that with the return of Mrs. Woodnell to her home, I am left as the only suffering party in the entire affair!"

The thought seemed to make him more miserable than anything else.

My friend thoughtfully drew on his clay pipe.

"That may be so, Your Lordship. Yet I am unable to help you at present. I received directions to drop your case, accompanied by a threat should I refuse to do so."

"Is that so?" The Lord's eyes widened in shock.

"Then I am forsaken indeed. If you cannot help me now, my pictures shall be sold and out of reach in the twinkling of an eye, and lost to me forever."

"A human life has been saved, Your Lordship", I reminded him.

"There is much to be grateful for."

"Indeed", Holmes acceded. "Especially since you are on intimate terms with the lady. I understand it was in your house that she first met Dr. Woodnell?"

"Oh yes. He told you that?"

"I believe he had occasion to mention it."

"It is quite true. A foundling raised by my family, she is. My mother had in her the daughter she always wished for. Harriet attended the best schools in England and afterwards has travelled far and wide on the Continent. Neither my parents nor I had seen her for years when she returned to London last summer. I took her out into society frequently, and introduced her to many of my friends, but naturally, it was Angus, my best chum, that she saw most often. They rapidly formed an attachment and by the end of the Season…"

"Quite, quite, so I understand. I would like to meet that interesting young person one day. Do you think you can render it possible?"

"Indeed, Mr. Holmes", the Lord said, his young face lightening up as if at the most desirable of prospects.

"Actually, it coincides quite happily with another matter I would like to put under your scrutiny…Oh, it has no bearing on the current case", he assuaged my friend, who had been about to protest.

"You needn't fear any of those consequences you have been threatened with to come to pass because of this. It is a mere trifle, but the sort of thing you take an interest in, or so I'm told."

"I'm all attention", Sherlock Holmes returned with a hint of the contrary.

"Well, it is nothing grand, as I said, but it puzzles me. Yesterday, I arrived at Bedford Square two hours prior to your visit, and afterwards spent five more hours with my friend, who was much in need of support. During the whole time, my cloak hung on the wardrobe in the hallway. On my departure in the afternoon, I took out my wallet and noticed it had been tampered with."

"Really? Do you count your money on leaving a friend's home as a matter of routine, Your Lordship?"

Lord Montgraves cheeks coloured slightly.

"Of course not. In fact, there was no money missing. First, I suspected one of the servants might have helped himself to a handsome tip, but when I counted the banknotes, there were just as many as I had inserted."

"Why did you suspect tampering, then?"

"The heads, Mr. Holmes. As a rule, I stuff my wallet so that all the heads are to one side and all the numbers to the other. But they were all mixed up, you see."

I hid my face behind my cup, which bore an expression of consternation at this nauseating pedantry.

Mr. Holmes remained unperturbed, drawn to neither amusement nor disgust.

"You are quite sure of that?"

"I tell you, sir! And pray what can be the aim in taking bank notes out of my wallet, turning and reinserting them? I can make neither head nor tail of it!"

I drew my brows together, for to be frank, this puzzle intrigued me, too.

Sherlock Holmes, for his part, did not appear much surprised.

"I see, Your Lordship. Your little experience interests me extremely. Perhaps I might really have a look into the matter. Will you be at Bedford Square today?"

"I promised Harriet to return instantly. She is still much upset – gruesome memories and all that. Maybe a friend is of more use on such an occasion than a husband."

"I agree with you. Would it be convenient for Doctor Watson and me to drop by around noon?"

"Wouldn't you prefer to accompany me back there?"

"No, that will hardly do. At noon time, then?"

"Assuredly, Mr. Holmes", Lord Montgrave assented, putting down his cup and rising from his seat. "I should be very much obliged."

**Hi there! So Mrs. Hudson is not dead after all – gave you a nasty little shock there, eh? But then, why should you suffer less than poor Doctor Watson? *snicker***

**Well, we're approaching the end, gentle readers! The curtain rises in earnest. Two or three more chapters, I should think. Prepare for the disclosure! Cheers and many hugs!**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter six: Siren Song

I was summoned to the bedside of a patient unexpectedly, and returned to Baker Street just in time for the departure. Holmes was pacing swiftly about the room, gathering his things and obviously in high spirits.

"Ah, there you are, doctor!" he cried when I closed the door behind me. "I already was in fear you would miss the whole thing. Now, you have made it, and a good thing, too. Without my chronicler, I am just another amateur fussing around, and nobody there to highlight my accomplishments."

"What would I have missed?" I enquired tentatively. "You refer to the mystery of Lord Montgrave's heads and numbers?"

He cocked an eyebrow, and I became aware of my aversion against the effeminate young man seeping through involuntarily.

"Nothing of the sort. It is the merest comorbidity to the larger crime at hand – a crime I'm happy to say can be solved speedily now that I am only in need of a few final clues – ah, that will be Lestrade."

Steps in our staircase became audible, but I paid it no heed, for all of a sudden, a panic rose in me that heated my face.

"Holmes", I cried, "for heaven's sake, do you mean to say that you will disregard the orders of Montgomery Kenneth gave you? You will resume the investigation?"

"No need for that, I assure you. I am holding all the strings in my hand – all I require at present is a firm proof for my conclusions."

"But, surely…" I wanted to express my compunction in regard to Mrs. Hudsons welfare, when he quickly stepped to my side, and said, his voice lowering to a mere hiss:

"It's a stitch-up, Watson! A fraud! If we step in now, we might be able to secure both, pictures and the life of our landlady."

"Why, what have you…?"

"Hush! Here comes Lestrade."

And an instant later in he came, clueless as ever and yet with the air of omniscience.

"My dear inspector! We expected you half an hour prior to now! Where _have_ you been?",Holmes called out with a reproachful glance, that was returned no less reproachfully.

"My apologies for the delay, but after all, the day turned out to be somewhat busier than expected. I sincerely hope what you are after is no will o' the whisps, Mr. Holmes", he grumped.

Holmes smiled elusively, ere he remarked:

"I should not dare to toy with your valuable time, inspector, and I can assure you that there is nothing queer in the matter at hand. Simply it proved to be a trifle more intricate than I first perceived, and required the skills of the professional, that I lack so evidently."

Lestrade eyed him suspiciously, for he knew that modesty was not his particular forte.

"Well, Mr. Holmes," he said finally, "we shall see what we can achieve with united power. It is no use denying that you command quite the brains yourself. Now, this is about Lord Montgrave's picture collection, I understand? And his Lordship hesitated to ask for the collaboration of the officials, having made some unfortunate experience with the police I suppose, but now that you are out of your depths, you decided to hand the matter over to the professionals?"

"Exactly." Sherlock Holmes' eyes sparkled with hidden hilarity. Then, of a sudden, he became matter-of-fact.

"I suggest, gentlemen,that we are off to Bloomsbury, so as not to aggravate the delay. We can sum up the case whilst driving there."

Much like on our previous visit, we were received by Lord Montgrave and the doctor. They raised their heads simultaneously when we were announced and ushered into the bright, beautiful sitting room.

"Ah. Mr. Holmes. Doctor Watson", the Lord welcomed us with a wide smile. Dr. Woodnell gave my friend a cool nod, more or less neglecting to register my own presence.

On Lestrades entering, however, both gentlemen traded a look of obfuscation, which told me that they had not been informed about his coming.

"Good day, gentlemen", Mr. Holmes said, blithely slurring over their obvious confusion. "I must beg your pardon for our tardiness, and I hope you won't mind that I took the liberty to bring Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard."

His words were apparently wasted on them, as the tension in the atmosphere was discernible to everyone present.

"This is a bit of a liberty indeed", Lord Montgrave replied, taking a step in our direction. "I believe Dr. Woodnell here told you that I did not desire the cooperation of the police in this affair."

"I felt it my duty, Your Lordship", Holmes returned sternly, "to commend the case into the hands of Inspector Lestrade, on whose capability you may rely absolutely. Since I am out of the game for reasons I explained beforehand, he is your only chance of solving the mystery in time."

The Lord opened his mouth, but hesitated to answer, when Dr. Woodnell interjected:

"That is correct, of course. Still, it would have been only right and proper to let us know before bestirring the Inspector. Yes, what is it?"

For Mr. Staunchill had come in that very moment.

"Your pardon, sir. Mrs. Woodnell sends word that she feels better now. She will descend shortly."

Dr. Woodnells face assumed a fond, slightly absent expression as if thinking of something else.

"Mr. Holmes – Dr. Watson", Scott Staunchill said, inclining his head politely. "A pleasure to see you again."

While we responded and the Lord introduced Inspector Lestrade, the handle of the door through which Staunchill had just entered was pressed down gingerly, and a veritable slip of a girl came into sight. So softly she treaded the carpeted floor, that she wasn't noticed by her husband and Lord Montgrave, who stood with the back to her, until she spoke.

"Good afternoon", she said, her voice high and childlike. "Please excuse my attire – I only rose just now."

For she was clad in a loose, empire-style chiffon gown. Dr. Woodnell swiftly turned around and took her hand.

"Harriet, my dear. Are you quite sure that you are well enough to be up? Oughtn't you rest one or two more hours? I can give you some chloral, if sleep won't come", Dr. Woodnell said caringly.

"Thank you, Angus", she responded, her eyes shining with adoration and her voice containing just the slightest hint of impatience. "I am just fine, I told you so over and over again. But you haven't introduced me to your friends", she mildly reprimanded him.

Her face turned to us as she spoke, and for the first time I was able to take her in completely. She was certainly very young, yet her looks had already developed a marked peculiarity, which spoke of her rare and complicated character. I found her quite the Titian beauty with her crimson tresses and warm, sea-green eyes. In stature, however, she would not have been to the taste of most men, her figure somewhat lacking feminine attributes, and yet there was a certain girlish grace in the way she moved, that matched her husband's juvenileness very well. I slightly jerked up when she extended her white hand to me, her mermaid eyes meeting mine.

"Madam." I insinuated a kiss on the back of her hand, just a tad befuddled when she withdrew it. The procedure was repeated with Holmes, who bowed over her fragrant hand as he would have over _Bradshaw's train guide_, and with as much emotion.

"Well, Harriet", Lord Montgrave said tenderly, when she had made our acquaintance, "perhaps you really had better sit on the ottoman, just to be sure. You must be tired and exhausted from the last day's adventures."

She did not give the impression of being tired in the least, but to avoid further dispute, she tripped over to the indicated piece of furniture and sat down on it, her feet tapping and her fingers drumming on the backrest, as if suppressing the pent-up urge towards activity. Her nature clearly craved occupation and enterprise, for she did not cease to dither even after Scott Staunchill had cast a long glance at her, the apparent boredom never vanishing from her face.

Lestrade, who had been looking left and right impatiently, seized the opportunity the gap in conversation offered. Stepping over to where the lady was seated, he declared:

"By means of questioning, I will now gather the facts you so lightheadedly neglected to share with the police. And I will start with the chief victim of the villainy. Mrs. Woodnell, please tell me how the man known to us as Montgomery Kenneth succeeded in taking you from the house, in spite of footmen being installed at every entrance to the house."

She raised her eyes adorably. "Oh, but I don't know how, Inspector, otherwise I would have told you by now. You see, I was sitting by the window – anticipating nothing – when suddenly I was seized from behind, and somebody pressed a tissue soaked with a dreadfully pungent essence to my face. At his point, I completely blacked out and, I am afraid, can't remember a thing."

"Of course she was anesthetized", Dr. Woodnell interposed. "Ether or chloroform, to judge on the description. Wouldn't you say, doctor?" he turned to me, suddenly realizing my presence. I bowed in agreement. Mrs. Woodnell's eyes had lowered to the floor. Her voice had become a pained whisper, as she continued:

"When I woke up, it was black night. I believe I was in some kind of barn or cabin, but cannot be sure on that point. I had been gagged and couldn't move due to the bondage that had been applied to me. It was some two or three hours after my awakening, and I was already quite exhausted from struggling against my shackles –" she lifted her lilywhite arms and let the sleeves of her loose gown fall back, so that we could see the black and blue bruises that trailed over her otherwise unblemished skin. " – when a man came in. he brought a lantern which I hardly needed, my eyes having adjusted to the surrounding darkness. He temporarily removed the gag so that I could consume the food he had brought."

"Can you describe him?" Lestrade asked eagerly.

"Yes. He was of medium height, looking rather frail to me, but there was a coldness in his glassy, bluish-green eyes, which assured me of his capability and readiness to horrible cruelty. He had flaxen hair and his attire was simple, reminding of a groom or handcrafter."

"Did he talk to you?"

"He did", the girl murmured, shifting on her seat and looking clearly vexed. Her husband sat down beside her and solicitously took her hand in his.

"He said many…terrifying things to me. There did not appear to be an end to it. He sat with me half the night, and I was already quite weary of his threats, when he retrieved a small bottle from his jacket soaked a piece of wad with the contents, and administered the drug, taking my consciousness from me once more."

She paused and looked at each of us in turn.

"The dose must have been exceedingly potent, for when I woke up, it was night again, although I could not be sure it was not still the same night, as I had lost track of time completely. I was given food and drink like before, but was left to myself for the remaining hours. Then, when dawn was nearly upon us, the repellent man returned, carrying me out of doors where he had a cab waiting, and shoved me inside. I was still drowsy from the drug and the lack of natural sleep, and dozed off several times during the ride. When the cab came to a halt and we disembarked, I remember there was Angus – Angus with a large parcel – the crown of a huge tree above us – "

Her husband squeezed her hand repeatedly, the look of concern and worry ever present on his face. There was a silence for a few moments, then Holmes took the word.

"Fascinating as your narrative undeniably is, madam, it is not in fact meant for my ears, as I am from now on excluded from the investigation. I shall leave everything to Lestrade, who will handle it, I have no doubt, with his customary professionalism. Come now Watson, we are required elsewhere! Let us go and have a look on the wardrobe outside. I think Lord Montgrave mentioned a small incident that will, perhaps, not overcharge my abilities as an amateur. If you will kindly excuse us?"

We bowed to the small party. On turning away, I caught sight of Mr. Staunchill's facial expression, which was one of convulsed horror. I frowned, but was impatiently waved at by Mr. Holmes, an unspoken order to make haste. When we passed the ottoman, Holmes dropped his cigarette case, which was picked up by Lestrade as foreseen. On his turning to us and handing the case to Mr. Holmes, the detective murmured the one single word with which I myself have occasionally been addressed:

"Linger."

**Whoohoo, two chapters to go! Sorry for the gap between the last story alert and the actual availability of the update, but there was something the matter with fanfictionnet. Hopefully it remains a one time incident.**

**Oh, bugger! I was convinced I had invented something completely new with Harriet Woodnell…until I discovered I ended up describing Lily Evans from **_**Harry Potter**_**, more or less. Well, well, well…pride will have a fall. I apologize for the plagiarism.**

**Thanks for your support! As always, your reviews are much appreciated **


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter seven: The game is up

"Holmes, did you perceive that fellow's face?" I asked once we were out of the room. I was not rendered the courtesy of an answer, as my companion rushed to the stairs with a pace that would have made a Derby winner proud.

"Holmes!" I hustled after him. "Did not you say you wanted to examine the wardrobe? Why, it is in the hallway naturally, just the opposite direction!"

"Pshaw, my dear fellow. This matter was clear as the day to me the very moment Lord Montgrave brought it to our notice. Before, if you like."

I scratched my forehead and fell behind, on which he decelerated his devilish speed.

"It is, just as His Lordship claimed, of no importance for the current case. Let us deal with the latter, as long as the persons concerned are stuck in Lestrade's cross-examination."

"But why going upstairs? Is it – " I frowned, "is it the lady's room you intend to re-visit?"

"Precisely."

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" I groaned with annoyance. "This is simply preposterous. When will you cease to apply the rule of _ladies first_ to the ranking of suspects? Remember how many honest women you did injustice in the past due your inflexibility on that point! Take the Second Stain case. You suspected Lady Trelawney Hope on the meager evidence that she turned her back to the light – "

" – and was proven correct!"

"If you so like. Yet it wasn't actually her fault, and that is what counts. Fact is, you have the propensity to be prejudiced against people because of their gender."

He sniffed at that. "My good doctor, I believe I have proven my unclouded view of persons who may or may not be suspicious a good many times. I am not certain, however, that the charms of the young lady in question have left your own judgment quite unaffected."

I beg the reader to remember at this point that every man except Mr. Sherlock Holmes is a lovelorn fool, and can't be expected to gather his five senses if a woman is about. On hearing my long-suffering sigh, he gave me a one of his fleeting smiles.

"Good old Watson. The fair sex is your department, no doubt. Nevertheless, a man must be either blind or imbecilic to have the involvement of this particular lady in this particular crime escape his notice."

I gazed at him, baffled.

"You heard me, doctor. How many explanations are there as to how she vanished from the guarded house? One, she left on her own. Two, she left with her so-called abductor. In both cases, an exit would have been used with which we are not acquainted and that was not guarded."

I am afraid, dear reader, that my mouth gaped in utter bewilderment. "You mean – an intrigue? A cabal?"

"That and far more. The missing suitcase is there to prove it."

We had reached Mrs. Woodnell's room. Holmes threw the door open, and we headed over for the store room. Among other bags, there were two prominently large trunks, one stacked onto the other, and a medium-sized leather suitcase on top. My friend lifted it and indicated the impression in the dust beneath, slightly blurred from recent removal and replacement. "Voilà."

"By Jove, you're right!" I cried. "Good Lord, how very extraordinary! Bur what are you up to, Holmes? What are you doing?"

For he had hurried back into the bedroom and started to move around in a searching fashion, his hands tentatively touching the quilt on the fourposter and turning inside out the pockets of the silken negligee that had been thrown carelessly over the footpiece.

"I am looking for the final evidence, Watson. Ah, that will do." He had reached the biedermeier desk, upon which lay among the afore mentioned objects a bonny little purse, neatly decorated with tiny beads. Holmes dug his hand into it, taking something out and slipping it into his own pocket.

"No, my dear friend, this is really impossible. I must ask you to – " I wanted to protest, but he cut my words short with an impatient gesture of the hand. "Now is not the time for your undoubtedly admirable chivalry, Watson. There are good reasons for my intervention, I assure you."

I gathered my thoughts to make another effort. "Well, but if Mrs. Woodnell is guilty of having carried out any treacherous designs, how can we know whether she was alone or, as you suggested, in compliance with Kenneth?"

He gazed at me intensely. "I did not at any time suggest a conspiracy with Kenneth, because there actually is no person with the name of Montgomery Kenneth involved in this affair."

My jaw dropped. "He – doesn't exist?"

"He does – I have strong evidence for that. Nonetheless, he was not a part of this felony, that much is certain. He was only used as a pretext – a scapegoat."

"But how do you know?"

"The notes. _Think_, Watson. Did nothing about them strike you as rather curious?"

I racked my brain. "Indeed, now that you mention it, I have a vague feeling that something was amiss…though I cannot put my finger on it."

"They were not written by the same person. You must have noticed that they differed in style enormously, with the one that Dr. Woodnell received typed on poor quality paper and full of orthographical errors, and the one that was directed to us quite the fine epistle. One can hardly assume that a man who misspells "wife" and "place" knows how to write "deplorable consequences" or "precious artworks" correctly."

"Of course!" I snapped my fingers fiercely. "But then, why did those two confederates not communicate about the style to be applied to the letters?"

"Evidently there was no dialogue between them because they were temporarily separated. The letter Dr. Woodnell threw into the fire place and Mr. Staunchill picked out of it was written by the girl. At our encounter downstairs, I instantaneously recognized the faint scent of lilies that I perceived while reading the blackmailing message. It was by far the better of the two notes, by the way. According to our information, Montgomery Kenneth is a man of very little education and monetary means, which suggests that he would misspell words and write on cheap paper. Our red haired writer appears to have a good sense for details – a not uncommon trait in a woman, I have found."

"Yes…but who was her confederate, then?"

"Ah! That is a wicked question. I am, however, quite sure I have found the right answer." Suddenly, he became his old hectic self. "Quick, Watson! It is now or never. They are all downstairs. Let us step in before any more harm can be done."

I was not satisfied with this statement, yet I had no choice. Together we rushed down the stairs as if chased by furies, but Holmes abruptly stopped in front of the door to the drawing room. Apparently quite at his ease, he opened it and moved in, and I, following his example, strolled after him.

"Oh, it's you." Lestrade turned around from where he had been talking to Dr. Woodnell, and from his tones I learned that he had found out little to nothing during our absence. "How are you getting on in your own investigation?"

"Oh, so so", Holmes replied smoothly, shrugging his shoulders. "But please. Do not let us interrupt you."

"Very well." Lestrade returned to Dr. Woodnell. "So, you cannot think of any way the criminal could have entered the house and left it with your unconscious wife?"

"Hardly. As I have repeated _ad nauseum_, I had footmen at every entrance and exit", the doctor huffed. "Front door, back door, delivery entrance and staff entrance were all being watched and guarded.

"Yes, yes, and I suppose there would have been no possibility to – I beg your pardon – smuggle her out somehow?"

Dr. Woodnell drew himself up to his greatest hight. "Certainly not, inspector."

"Without a doubt", Mr. Holmes remarked, taking seat in a lounge chair and crossing his legs, "it would be wiser to direct that question at Mrs. Woodnell, as she was the person concerned and present on the occasion."

Mrs. Woodnell arched an eyebrow at him. "Such a question would be pointless, Mr. Holmes. Certainly you will remember that I said I was without consciousness at the time."

"I do", Holmes replied, his eyes sparkling with restrained amusement. "I remember you said so. This acknowledgement does not, however, include my belief in your words."

Everybody started at his statement. Mrs. Woodnell rose from the ottoman, a picture of offended dignity. "I must ask you to revoke this insult, Mr. Holmes. Your remark is one of exceptional bad taste."

The peace of the room was distinctly disturbed.

"I say", was all that Lord Montgrave could manage to utter, while Mr. Staunchill uncomfortably shifted on his seat and Dr. Woodnell hissed a commentary on my dear friend's accountability that was on the threshold to offence itself.

Mr. Holmes lifted his arm to calm the sudden uproar of protest. When at least superficial tranquility was re-installed, he rose and slowly went up and down the room while talking.

"From a very early stage in my enquiry, I was convinced that a treachery in regard to Lord Montgrave's Constables was envisaged, and that the entire cock-and-bull story about Montgomery Kenneth being involved was merely a made-up delusion and camouflage. There were reasons for this assumption that I need elaborate no further, because some of the persons present are already aware of them, and for the others they are of only secondary interest."

The whole room listened to him now with perceivable tension. The men, with exception of Lestrade, had become very pale, while the woman stayed remarkably calm, her pretended mortification long ago dissipated.

"It is you, madam, to whom the compliment for planning this outrageous villainy is due", Mr. Holmes proceeded. "You saw the opportunity to keep the borrowed pictures, and you took it. The blame would go to the obscure Mr. Kenneth entirely. You removed yourself from the house on Friday afternoon, taking one of the suitcases from your room with you. From your lair, you send a letter to your husband, pretending that your life was at stake and the Constables had to be forwarded to Montgomery Kenneth, whose role would be filled in by your male confederate. Knowing that Lord Montgrave was devoted to you, it was certain from the beginning that the request would be acceded to. I must congratulate you on your acute attention to details, madam. The letter you wrote was certainly most authentic – unfortunately, the same cannot be said of the note your confederate send to inform me about his kidnapping Mrs. Hudson. I suppose you lacked the opportunity to see each other during the period you were supposed to be vanished, and consequently could not coordinate your styles of composition and the accompanying trifles."

"This is ridiculous, Holmes!" Dr. Woodnell exploded. "I see no reason to expose my wife to further insults on your part. Where is the proof for your audacious allegations?"

"I have it here – in my pocket", Mr. Holmes returned calmly. "It is the bill of the Crown Hotel, Cromwell Road, Chiswick, made out to the name of Harriet Woodnell, for nights Friday to Sunday inclusively. I would ask you not to dismiss this evidence as a valid proof", he raised his voice a little as Harriet obviously tried to speak, "for it would cause me the inconvenience of summoning the staff of the Chiswick Crown for the purpose of identifying you as the lady guest that occupied a room there during the three previous days. And allow me to pay you a further compliment, madam. The story of your abduction, the description of the criminal as well as the bruises you applied to yourself were certainly most convincing. This is, once more, due to your appreciation of minutiae."

Dr. Woodnell breathed harder, his wrath clearly displayed on his face. "Sir", he said in a veritably menacing tone, "if you dare to say one more word, on single word to the discredit of my wife's honour, I shall…"

"Angus!" Mrs. Woodnell briefly took his arm and squeezed it. Still, she seemed to be perfectly unperturbed by the developments. "Do not exert yourself on my behalf. The game is up."

**Oh, the wicked girl! She is the chief culprit alright, but still there remains a heap of questions to be answered. **

**And good heavens! I'm not sure I can fit all those explanations and the rest of the story into one chapter. I'll make it out only during the writing process, I'm afraid. **

**So stay in tune! And don't forget to let me know your thoughts. Your reviews always make my day! **

**Toodles!**


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter eight: Catch me if you can

The reaction of a room full of people who learn that they have been betrayed is indescribable. Therefore I refrain from trying to do so. Let it suffice that the air was filled with exclamations of hurt, anger, surprise, scandal and vexation. In the midst of this emotional tempest, Mrs. Woodnell stood undisturbed, all ease and good-humouredness. Finally, Lestrade succeeded in assuaging the outburst, hands raised and speaking up forcefully.

"Silence! Silence, or you all shall accompany me top Scotland Yard! Now, madam", he turned to Mrs. Woodnell, "you admit the deeds Mr. Holmes charged you with?"

"Of course. It's all perfectly true", she replied readily.

"Will you tell us who your accomplice was, then?"

"No."

"I beg your pardon?"

"No." She stood in the centre of the room, a mild smile on her childlike features.

"Oh. I see", Lestrade sneered, casting one of his most lethal glances at her. Contrarily to me, the inspector had never been reprimanded by Mr. Holmes for making too great allowances for a lady. "And the Constables? And Mr. Holmes' landlady? You won't deign to let us know where you have brought them, I presume?"

"No." She stood smilingly, meeting Lestrade's eyes with an even gaze. The Inspector drew his breath deeply at what he considered an ill-timed jibe on her part.

"Very well then. I suppose we have a cell ready at the Yard, just for mylady's convenience. I don't accept self-admitted frauds to behave like Miss Cheeky, mind that. We have the upper hand, you know. We have you in our power…"

Calmly she returned: "You don't have me yet."

Never in my life did I have such a shock! In an instant, the girl had rushed to the window and stood on the sill. She smiled at our bewildered faces and – dash it all! – stuck out her tongue at us!

"Come and get me, old gents!" she crowed, but ere we had come around, the slim child had jumped out of the window. We were on the ground floor, to be sure, but still there was a not inconsiderable height difference between the sill and the street level, some three or four yards at least. I, for my part, was dumbfounded to see, when we hurried to the window, that she had landed on the pavement as gracefully and securely as a young kitten. She turned around once more, grinned at us brazenly, and gathered her skirts, running away at the top of her speed.

"Qick! We must get her!" I spun around in time to see Dr. Woodnell, obviously on his way to the door, being stopped by Mr. Holmes who had appeared out of nowhere and clapped his derringer at the doctor's temple.

"Not quite so fast, Dr. Woodnell. Watson!" he called me, handing me the revolver, "you and Lestrade will see to it that nobody removes himself from the room. Do not disappoint me!" And within the twinkling of an eye, he was gone. I turned around to the remaining men – my own befuddlement reflected by every face.

Only a quarter of an hour later had passed when Mr. Holmes returned, breathing heavily and with his hair hanging loosely over his forehead. "She's – gone – lost – sight of her – on – Russel Square – station", he managed to issue between his gasps. "Has – an – appalling speed, that maiden – well – it doesn't matter."

"Doesn't matter!" I burst forth. "What about poor Mrs. Hudson? What about the Constables? Now we shall never know where to find them!"

He waved me away. "It is all right, Watson – the accomplice knows that too, if I am not very much mistaken."

"Yes, if we could only lay hands on him!" I groused.

"Oh, but we can – provided that he doesn't plunge himself out of the window, that is. Am I not correct, Dr. Woodnell?", Holmes called, still exhausted, but triumphant.

"Angus?" Lord Montgrave mumbled, stunned, when the doctor didn't make an effort to defend himself and instead assumed a very cool, nearly haughty expression. "But – how is it possible? We are friends…we always were. I gave you my pictures, Angus…I gave them to you!"

"Be quiet!" his trusty friend spat. "I cannot stand your wailing any more. Why should such an insufferable weakling possess a treasure like the Constable series? If you can't even protect what is yours, why, then you have only yourself to blame!"

"That is quite enough, gentlemen!", Lestrade stepped in. "You will now, without further ado, tell me both the hiding place of the paintings, as well as the whereabouts of Mrs. Augusta Hudson."

Dr. woodnell folded his arms in front of his chest, his fetchingly pretty, arrogant profile turned at us. "You shall learn nothing from me. Harriet is free, and so I will be. You cannot command me in my own house."

"Wait, you…!" Lestrade clearly was on the verge of getting himself into a hot white rage, but Holmes tutted disapprovingly.

"Save that for later, Lestrade. I suggest you do first things first and arrest this young man."

"How can I?" The Inspector wuthered. "We can't prove his confederacy! And he is a stubborn ass. I will never get a confession out of him!"

"That is quite unnecessary at present. The charge is willful murder and can be supported quite easily."

"Murder, sir?" Lestrade's eyes widened in astonishment, which was nothing compared to the face of Woodnell, and those of Mr. Staunchill and Lord Montgrave, who unbelievingly echoed: "Murder?"

"Indeed. Cold blooded murder of his own grandmother, client of _Dew Dale_ lunacy home, on Sunday morning of the previous week."

Lestrade's eyes widened even more, until they resembled a set of saucers. "You mean – the corpse on the heath?"

"The same. The disposal of the body, by the way, was performed in one go with the abduction of Mrs. Hudson, close to Branch Hill Pond."

"No." Our heads flew around, as Mr. Scott Staunchill spoke unexpectedly. "That is not true, sir. I beg your pardon, but Mrs. Woodnell senior is alive and as well as can be under the circumstances. I could hear her cries on my routine walk at _Dew Dale_ this morning."

We all watched him in silence for a few seconds, until Mr. Holmes snorted derisively. "Pshaw. That has nothing to say. We should, however, do everything in the right order. The first necessity is accomplished – Monsieur Woodnell has been delivered into the custody of Inspector Lestrade. The second priority is the retrieving of Lord Montgrave's pictures. Oh, I would prefer Mrs. Hudson's life, of course", he said hastily, as I opened my mouth in order to protest, "but as I said, everything in due order. Having the distinct feeling that Mr. and Mrs. Woodnell would have found it too much of a risk to bring the Constables someplace where they could have been accidentally discovered, I am inclined to look for them here – in this very house."

"Where shall we start to search, Mr. Holmes?" Lord Montgrave asked, still shakily, but now that he had the glimpse of a hope to regain his treasure, a little more ready to step into creased his forehead, while we others stared at Dr. Woodnell provokingly. He, however, returned neither look and declined to speak as firmly as ever.

"Well, well…a valuable picture can't be stored at any place, that is for sure. Where is the access to the cellar?", Holmes enquired thoughtfully if a somewhat incoherently.

"There is no cellar to this house!" Mr. Staunchill answered, astounded.

My friend snarled impatiently. "Of course there is. The entire closer neighbourhood of British Museum is undermined, a veritable molehill."

"Well, yes…but we never used it at all, you see. I am not even sure there is a key to the door."

I snapped my fingers. "Eureka! Give me a minute, I shan't take longer." Hustling from the room, I ran to the staircase, taking three steps at once, so that I arrived at Mrs. Woodnell's bedroom quite out of breath. Sweeping in, I grasped the bunch of keys that lay on the desktop between the beaded purse and the japanese pencil case, and re-joined the others downstairs in a hurry. "I took the keys from the lady's room. Where is the cellar, then?"

"It is beneath the stairs. Please follow me, gentlemen", Mr. Staunchill said, leading us from the sitting room. Only Dr. Woodnell remained there and Lestrade to guard him.

The entrance to the cellar, a mere broom closet, was dusty, dirty and full of cobwebs, most of which, as pointed out by Mr. Holmes, had been torn recently. Lord Montgrave had fetched a lantern from the kitchen, and in the flickering light we could see that the dirt layer on the stairs to the basement had also been disturbed.

"Come, come!"

A dark, musky smell filled our nostrils, earthen and heavy: Dust, old potatoes, mouse filth and whatever else might be looming there in the darkness. Our feet stumbled over cumbersome objects of indefinable size and shape, our hands insecurely groping along the walls for support.

"Keep your eyes open, gentlemen", Sherlock Holmes murmured. "If it is somehow possible, given the nearly impermeable eclipse."

We mumbled our agreement, when I suddenly abutted my toe against a hard, sharp object, issuing the worst curse at my disposal.

"Watson!" Holmes hissed, turning back at me with a good deal of annoyance. "I just told you to keep your eyes open, doctor!"

"Sorry, Holmes", I grumbled, "it is just that my foot rather painfully hit these picture frames."

With a strange suffocated half-cry, a mixture of jubilation and annoyance, Holmes leaped over to the indicated stack of frames that appeared not to be empty when met by the light of Lord Montgrave's lantern. The latter began to shake mightily when Holmes threw himself on his knees and started to pick up and turn around the paintings.

"_Brighton Beach_ – the _Corn Field _sketch – _Malvern Hall_ – study of _Tree Trunks_ – Lord Montgrave", he looked up solemnly from his activity, "I believe the paintings to be restoted to you not only safe and undamaged, but complete in number."

"Is it possible?" Lord Montgrave bend over his shoulder eagerly. "Indeed – and where is the _Church Porch_ – ah there, behind the _Brighton Beach_. They are there! They are all there! Oh Mr. Holmes, if I could only tell you how perfectly, perfectly happy you have made me!"

"You are very welcome, Your Lordship", Holmes replied, quite amiably, and got back onto his feet. "And I have no doubt Mr. Staunchill will be so kind as to help you taking them upstairs. Meanwhile, a little predicament awaits Watson and me."

"And that would be?" I asked with gritted teeth, the pain in my foot fading away only gradually.

"To walk on", Mr. Holmes ordered. "Provided that you can do it. "

"Certainly." I pulled myself together and limped into the darkness, following the lead of my friend. "What are we looking for?"

"A glimpse of daylight", came his voice out of the gloom.

I laughed depreciatingly. "My good Holmes, surely now you are joking. Pray from whence in this Egyptian darkness could you expect daylight?"

"Of course I am not joking. Light is the only thing it makes sense to search in the dark, since everything else could not be seen. And what is more, we have not yet discovered the exit that girl used on her escape from the house, have we?"

"No…" I acknowledged unwillingly, stopping dead on a sudden. "Holmes! Look!"

"Look where, Watson? It is all dark!"

"To the light, naturally! To the crack through which the light is creeping in!" I cried, as indeed a few rays found their way into the corner of the cellar in which we found ourselves. It came from above us, from the ceiling, so surely somewhere had to be –

"Steps!" Holmes exclaimed delightedly. "They' ll take us directly up to the ceiling. There has to be some kind of trap door, I'll wager. Let us see if I can push it back."

I ascended the short flight of stairs behind him, just in time to see him force up the cover lid above our heads, dust trickling on our shoulders and the bright daylight hurting my suddenly exposed eyes. Shading them with my hand, I scrambled up and peeped out of the hole my companion had opened in the ceiling. We appeared to be in a stable of sorts, the sun shining brightly through the wide open door, but the room for our top-hatted heads was very limited, as something large and black extended itself only a few inches above us.

"How very curious!" I uttered. "Where in all the world are we?"

"I have reason to believe that we find ourselves in the carriage depot in the back yard, located exactly under Dr. Woodnell's landau. I'm afraid we envisage a somewhat undignified exit procedure, but then, needs must be", my friend sighed resignedly.

We got out of the trap door and scrambled, flatly on the abdominal side, out from under the carriage, finally drawing up ourselves to a more befitting position.

"Do you really think she left through there?" I asked, brushing the dust from my garments.

"I do indeed. Clearly, nobody knew of either stairs or trap door, with the cellar being unused as it is. Maybe the idea occurred to her while checking on the basement's suitability as a hiding place for the Constables."

"Possibly."

We exited through the open door, which brought us to the back yard that was surrounded by a high, reddish brick wall.

"I take it she kept to this way, and went over to the wall", my friend observed. "With all these large lilac bushes, there was no danger of being seen from the house."

I frowned. "But the wall, Holmes! It is ridiculously high."

"My dear Watson, after what I have so far experienced of Madam Harriet's gymnastic accomplishments, I can hardly believe this wall forms a serious obstacle for her."

"She may be able to throw her trunk over and climb it – but still she would have to jump down on the other side."

"To my knowledge, there is a public green space over yonder", Holmes returned automatically, "adorned with a muddy pond just below this brick wall."

Once again, I could only be amazed at my friend's memory for trifles. But after all, the day had taught me a thing or two about the importance of minutiae.

**Wha-hey, now we have disclosed the identity of the villains and secured the valuable pictures.**

**I must ask your forgiveness for being a little obvious there, since language is my forte, not plotting. *blushes madly* But then, good old ACD tended to being obvious himself, which is a great relief. Wish I had Agatha Christie's plotting skills, all the same. She completely stunned me in **_**The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.**_

**And talking of elderly ladies, it is high time to care for Mrs. Hudson's welfare! See you next chapter!**

**Toodles!**


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter nine: All is well that ends well

"There is nothing further to be discovered here", Mr. Holmes decided, tossing his cigarette butt into the lilac and waving at me to follow him. "I suggest we return to the house. Probably Lestrade and Mr. Staunchill by now are facing the trouble of keeping Mssrs. Woodnell and Montgrave apart."

His concern certainly was not unfounded, for as we re-entered the sitting room, the two young men positively glared at each other, giving the impression of having done so for a while now. Lestrade did not mind the tense atmosphere in the least, being accustomed to all kinds of awkward situations due to his profession, bur Mr. Staunchill appeared to be quite uncomfortable and busied himself with removing the dust from the picture frames with his handkerchief.

"Ha! Lestrade?"

"What have you found, Mr. Holmes – apart from the paintings, that is?"

"A great deal to interest you. Your men from should examine the cellar more thoroughly one day, heaven knows what else might be found there. But alas! Not today, I'm afraid, our time is running short. If you would be so kind as to take Dr. Woodnell to the Yard and debrief him, I am convinced that Lord Montgrave will be at your disposal to supply the additional information you may require. And Mr. Staunchill, I hope, will have the kindness to accompany Dr. Watson and me."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes", the secretary agreed. "Pray, what is our destination?"

Once in the cab, Holmes again turned to the young man. "Mr. Staunchill, I believe you are aware that there is a reason why I should desire an interview with you in private – notwithstanding Watson's presence."

Staunchill coloured and hung his head. "Indeed, Mr. Holmes. I knew I could not trick you, knew it ever since you came to Bedford Square. That was why I returned the bank notes to Lord Montgrave's purse – not five minutes after I had taken them out."

"It was you?" I spluttered. "Holmes? How did you find out?"

My companion chuckled. "The matter is a simple one. You will remember that Mr. Staunchill, on our first encounter, was summoned to the sitting room, into which he stepped from the hallway. Inspecting him closely as it is my habit, I noticed that the letter, which to get he used as a pretext to leave the room again, already stuck in the pocket of his jacket, the other pocket displaying a distinct, if slight, bulge. When he returned a little later, the note was still in its place – the bulge was gone."

"It is true sir, and all I can say in my defense is that I never tried to pull the wool over your eyes. When Dr. Woodnell introduced you, gentlemen, I made up my mind to return the money immediately, having heard of your successes in criminal investigations, and invented an excuse to leave for another five minutes."

"Precisely. You will have observed, Watson, that Mr. Staunchill was exceedingly nervous on our departure for the upper floors, whereas he proved to be quite at his ease later on, even to the point of issuing his own assumptions in regard to the case."

"It is just as if you had been in my head. When you stated the desire that I should come with you, I was nearly certain that you had rumbled me, but when your questions remained focused on the disappearance of Mrs. Woodnell entirely, I was so foolish as to hope my deed was undisclosed."

Dr. Woodnell's assistant lifted his head and looked at us frankly. "What is it you intend to do about it, gentlemen?"

"Nothing!" Sherlock Holmes exclaimed. "You have restored your prey and experienced a certain measure of repentance, or so I hope. Besides, it is not entirely your fault if you have been corrupted by the household you live in. If you can persuade us that you won't go wrong again…"

"How can I?"

"Cooperate, Mr. Staunchill. Your testimony will be required, since I have the vague feeling Dr. Woodnell might turn out to be quite a hard nut to crack in court. Yet, there is a far more urgent matter we shall see to beforehand."

The cab had come to a stop and as we alighted, we faced a huge, gloomy building, _"Dew Dale"_, as we were informed by the iron-wrought sign above the entrance.

"I should like to see Mrs. Woodnell senior, if you can render it possible."

Mr. Staunchill's jaw dropped as it dawned upon him. "Sweet Lord! Quickly, gentlemen!"

We hurried through the main entrance into the dismal, cold foyer, sharply turning left and entering the staircase, speeding up the steps and down a dark, bare corridor. Halting in front of a door, Mr. Staunchill fished for his bunch of keys.

"It is silent – she's sleeping."

We exchanged glances rapidly. Mr. Staunchill turned the key in the hole and threw open the door. We stood at the entrance of a lengthy, clinically white cell, which derived its only illumination from the narrow window at the far end. It was scarcely furnished apart from a pallet on our left by the stone wall, on which lay, slightly dishevelled, but clearly alive – "Mrs. Hudson!" I whispered, greatly relieved. We had found her, and she was well apparently…if at present fast asleep.

"Now, what do you say, Watson?" Mr. Holmes enquired, retrieving a cigarette from his case. We were back in Baker Street, and I just returned from Mrs. Hudson's room where we had installed the old lady in her bed.

"She has been awake for a few minutes. I told her not to exert herself by speaking, but noticed that she was terribly dehydrated. Together with the water, I administered an opium sedate. She is asleep now."

"One has to be grateful for a good many things", Holmes returned ambiguously, drawing on his cigarette. I smiled, went over to my desk and took out a box of my very best Jamaican cigars.

"This occasion demands something better than those disgusting fags you are so fond of", I declared, offering one to my friend, who accepted it gratefully. "Now", I proceeded, "there are, if you so please, a few questions I would like you to answer."

"Oh." He waved his hand nonchalantly. "My dear Watson, you know I should be happy to enlighten you upon any point that remains obscure."

"Well." I sat down in my customary chair opposite the fire place. "How did it come to your mind to look for Mrs. Hudson at _Dew Dale_? Now that everything is over, it seems perfectly reasonable, but how did you figure it out?"

"The corpse is to blame. The dead woman and also Mr. Staunchill, who first brought the existence of Mrs. Woodnell senior to our notice."

"So Woodnell did the old lady in just to provide a hiding place for Mrs. Hudson? How could he do something so very awful?"

"He knew she wouldn't be missed. I had occasion to remark several times before that the friendless, solitary woman is an uncommonly endangered species. Remember the Frances Carfax case. Where there is nobody to ask questions, a woman can vanish without the risk of consequences."

"Surely Mr. Staunchill would have noticed her disappearance someday?"

"Possibly. But then, Dr. Woodnell might have said that he had brought her to another asylum, and there would have been an end to it. You observed, of course, that Staunchill is very loyal to his employer – even now." He exhaled the cigar smoke, which curled up in blue plumes to the ceiling.

"Quite. Still, I find it hard to believe that he and all the staff at _Dew Dale_ failed to realize an exchange had taken place."

"Why? It was a formidable concealment. There was not even the need to bring Mrs. Hudson to a lieu where her cries would not be heard – constant howling being expected of the cell's tenant. And nobody could recognize her because nobody ever saw her. I would like to remind you that Mr. Staunchill said that her supplies were brought in only when she slept. Of course, there were the people in the rear street that looked up at the window, but I don't assume they paid Mrs. Hudson any heed - long since used to the old, white haired woman, waving and desperately knocking against the glass…"

"My god." I shivered. "She must have suffered dreadful anguish."

"I dare say. Nevertheless, I am convinced that she will recover speedily…a robust old lady, Mrs. Hudson is."

"She is", I responded with a fond smile. "She is."

And indeed, when the evening came, our landlady woke from her drug initiated slumber and was restored to us. Sitting at the fire and wrapped in a shawl, she enjoyed the opportunity of calling orders at Mr. Holmes in turn, if in a far more reticent and amiable way than he usually did. We went over our adventures again and again, and she, too, had a great deal to report, from the hour she had left Mrs. Brackley's house till the moment we had come to her rescue.

"You know, Holmes", I remarked thoughtfully, "I am sure you suspected Dr. Woodnell from the beginning, but I don't quite know why. In my opinion, Lord Montgrave would by far have made the more likely candidate. I wondered the whole time whether an attempt at insurance swindle might not be aimed for."

"Dear me, no Watson, I dismissed the possibility of Lord Montgrave being responsible for the crime from the start."

"Why? After all, it was Dr. Woodnell who laid the problem before us."

"Was he? You have forgotten that Lord Montgrave _insisted_ on his going to us. _He _wanted us to look into the matter, and why should he, if he was the culprit? He could easily have gone to the Yard, where the story would have been accepted more readily. Dr. Woodnell, while being glad that no police had been called into the business, respected my abilities so far as to prevent, as at least he thought, my interference by snatching our indispensable Mrs. Hudson here."

Our landlady blushed, lowering her eyes modestly.

In silence we had another round of tea.

When I accepted the cup of tea Sherlock Holmes offered me, something came back to my mind.

"Mrs. Hudson", I said, taking out the damask handkerchief and showing it her, "Holmes and I found this on Hampstead Heath, close to the pond. Whose was it now, can you tell? Dr. Woodnell's or mine?"

"Watson is very persistent about that handkerchief", Mr. Holmes observed amusedly. "Hopefully you can provide a satisfactory explanation."

The old lady scrutinized the tissue carefully. "It is yours, doctor, I'm positive", she declared. "Have you forgotten? You lend me this when we had tea the other day. When I was assaulted on the Heath, this horrid man took it from me and used it as a gag – " Her small, wrinkled features writhed at the hateful memory. "However, I got rid of it ere he shoved me into a cab that he had ready, and that smelled awfully of the poor woman he had thrown into the pool."

"Oh, really?" Mr. Holmes pricked his ears. "This indicates that he killed her beforehand, possibly a day or two. I had presumed that he struck her down there and then – but this theory makes more sense and accounts for the body's deplorable condition. Well well, I am clearly no medical man. You shall have to train me in ascertaining the time of death, Watson!" he said cheerfully.

Mrs. Hudson shook herself. "Brrr! I do not see how you can enjoy handling such gruesome affairs, really I don't."

"Perhaps you should retire now, Mrs. Hudson", I suggested tentatively. "Your health is tattered, and you have to take as much rest as possible."

"I will", she demurred, "but it won't be necessary to give me any sleeping drugs, doctor. They cause a rather uncomfortable, swoon-like kind of sleep, I have found."

"Just as you like." I assisted the tiny woman in rising from her chair and lead her to the exit on my arm. At the door we paused.

"Good night, Mr. Holmes", Mrs. Hudson said, fondly and tenderly. The ghost of a smile flitted over her lodger's otherwise unmoved features.

"Good night."

**We are at the end – kind of. There is, however, a small epilogue. Sorry for the delay, but I had to run around, fight evil professors, fix up a schedule and all that jazz. You know what I mean? Right, it's called life!**


	10. Chapter 10

Epilogue

When I returned, he sat in a contemplative mood, his knees drawn up und his arms draped around them. I stuffed my pipe and resumed my seat, puffing contentedly.

"Where were we? Ah yes, the question of suspicion. Why Woodnell, then?"

"I had a distinct inkling", Holmes responded calmly. "His wife was what gave him away. He was not _worried _enough. Can you picture a man madly in love, whose wife has disappeared and who swaggers about his professional accomplishments in front of strangers? No, my friend. First, I was inclined to think that he did not actually care for her, but when my assumption was so vehemently contradicted by Mr. Staunchill and everyone else, and when I saw them together I was sufficiently convinced of their mutual affection. It could be deduced, then, that he did not have to be worried for her, since he knew that she was in no real danger. So, what followed? She was safe – he knew it – they were accomplices. It is as easy as that."

"How very extraordinary", I mused. "Yes, he is an extraordinary man, this Woodnell. A bright fellow, I'm sure…but as you observed, he lacks his wife's thoroughness and theatrical talents."

"He was ever predisposed to be murderer and a cheat", Mr. Holmes said philosophically. "A vain, self-absorbed man…being admired by our peers inspires a strange view of our rights in some of us. Our Dr. Woodnell may have been seduced by the fact that he always reached his aim, and ceased worrying about ways and means. Still, the spark of cruelty was always there – in him."

We sat in silence for a while. Outside, a slight rain had set in, the drops being pressed against our window by the flurry. I went to my desk and started to occupy myself with some of my old notes, and Holmes took up his violin, fiddling it listlessly. The profound melancholia that succeeded most of his concluded cases had already seized him, and I turned my mind inside out, searching something to prevent utter boredom taking possession of him. Yet all I could come up with was a further question.

"I wonder", I said aloud, "whether Mr. Staunchill's assumption about Lord Montgrave is correct."

Holmes replaced his violin on the sofa. "Why, what do you mean?"

"He said the Lord was not actually a rich man. You recall the picture frames being gilded."

Sherlock Holmes sighed. "I have come to the conclusion, my dear friend, that to a lover of the arts, a frame is a matter of secondary or no interest. Lord Montgrave might simply not have cared whether his Constables were framed with gold or with anything else, as long as they remained what they were. Perhaps he thought of these lines of Goethe:_ Was glänzt, ist für den Augenblick geboren/Das Echte bleibt der Nachwelt unverloren._"

I lowered my head, returning to my occupation, but my eyes kept wandering back to him, or rather to the drawer I knew to contain my unreasonable friend's syringe and the seven-per-cent solution. While his life is a constant effort to avoid boredom, mine is an effort to avoid his getting bored, in which endeavor I have so far only partially succeeded.

**There you have it! Now, I think, everything has been explained. If you still have questions – out with it! **

**I thank you lots for reading this story, which I hope you have enjoyed. I enjoyed it loads, thanks to you, guys. And I'm really glad the Baker Street gentlemen have their Mrs. Hudson back, because they really can't do without her. They are dreadfully spoiled.**

**Perhaps I shall see you someday in another story. Until then – feel hugged!**


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